The Frost Experiment
by Indigo Shade
Summary: Sometimes, when they dream, the bad things happen.
1. Chapter 1

**A.N: Frost is not taking any more characters at this point, but for the cast of characters, see below.**

X-X

She sat at the kitchen counter, yawning. She would rather have been asleep. Her dark curls bounced in front of her vision, and, annoyed, she tugged them back behind her ear. She leaned over what she was working on and tried to ignore her stepmother in the background. She knew she had been mostly raised by that woman, but she could only bring herself to call the matriarch by her first name, Amy. That woman was all ice and no movement, but she seemed to be pretty good at giving orders, at least, tossing her blonde head and crowing about something new.

She brushed back her bangs again, leaning over her work. She was spelling her name. It was hard work, being the whole five letters it was. Grace. She hated it. One day, when she was older and it was legal, she would change it. Maybe to something amazing. Something like Indigo, or Wisdom, or June. She paused while considering this and shook her head. Not June. That name sounded like a psychic or something. She drew the brush in red swirls over the 'E' in her still pretty pathetic name while Amy stormed like thunder into the kitchen, her slim Meowth on her heels.

The blonde stomped over to the fridge, yanked it open, pulled out the milk, gave some to the Meowth, poured herself a glass, chugged it, threw the milk back into the fridge, and then finally noticed Grace. Her face lost some of its anger, but it still didn't feel right to her stepdaughter. It wasn't her mom's, was all. Amy looked down to the canvas. She nodded and smiled and stated, "That came out very nicely, don't you think?" Before Grace could reply, her stepmother was flying out of the kitchen and back down the hallway to be someone else's problem. Grace flinched mentally. Those poor construction men. It should have been an easy job. Too bad they weren't planning on the likes of Amy. Normally, Grace's good-natured father would have intervened, but he was in a third-world country helping as both a doctor and a journalist. His avid writing, though popular with all sorts of important newspapers, was to him "just a hobby" even though he was bringing to light things that no one had ever considered.

Grace yawned again. She eyed her work, a waterfall of letters, and shrugged. When it was done that way, with all sorts of artistic bells and whistles, it looked ok. It looked like she was talking about real grace, the sort that dancers are supposed to have. It still didn't look like her, though. She looked at it and decided it needed something else. She padded down the hallway until she found the chaos where Amy was making her vision known.

"Hey, do you think we have any bells I could use?" Grace asked, but her words were swallowed by the sound of a jackhammer. She slapped her hands over her ears, trying not to inhale sawdust. She waited until there was a pause in the constant motion, but when she opened her mouth to talk again, Amy spotted her and started talking first.

"Oh! Sweetie! I left some papers about that new school on your bed, ok? Be a dear for mommy and go read them." Amy paused and dropped the saccharine act for a second. "You know, you really shouldn't be around here without ear protection."

Grace rolled her eyes and muttered a reply, but again her response was swept up in sound. She trailed up the stairs and into her room, promising herself she would just find the bells and leave. That was that. Nothing else. She wouldn't even look at her bed. She wouldn't even think about her bed.

She darted towards her four-poster resting area and yanked the papers into her hands. Sure, she was pretty much terrified out of her wits, but she had so much excitement rolling through her veins that she didn't care. She had been talent scouted. _Her._ Without Amy's help. Without anyone's help. She got to go to a talent school, and it was all on her own work. She hated that she was leaving her friends behind, but it was the sort of opportunity that people dreamed about in public school.

She threw herself onto the bed and heard a muffled grunt. She laughed and pulled back the covers. "Oh, is that where you have been hiding?" She questioned the lump of white fur. Grace loved her Absol. He was clever and playful and charming. But Amy and her stupid, mean little Meowth hated him. Amy frowned horribly whenever he was around. She thought he was too big and dirty. Grace loved him just for those reasons, but he had taken to hiding under her covers whenever Amy was in a mood, which was pretty much always. She stroked his ample white mane and sighed. "Tabbot, darling, you are getting too big for my bed, I hope you know that," she purred, and then flipped onto her back so her head was resting on his side. He twisted and licked her hair absently, and she laughed. She held the papers up so she could read them to him.

"Alright, Tab, are you listening? No? Good. Now then. Finnegan's School for Talent," she read, and settled in. Around halfway through the informational packet, Tabbot fell asleep, but Grace didn't mind. She figured he was listening in his dreams. Talent school was better than private school. In private school, all you needed was money to get in. In talent school, you actually had to be good at something. Amy had held an art gala, and Grace had slipped her own art in, hoping no one would notice. Someone did though, someone who turned out to be a talent scout, someone her told her that boarding schools would be calling her soon with information, and she had better decide. Amy had almost fainted with embarrassment while Grace had almost fainted from sheer delight. Talent scouts were rare. Being scouted was rarer.

He had been right, though. As if by magic, talent schools across the country had become suddenly very excited about her. Her public school teachers found out, somehow, and had pretty much given up on her. It had been two months until the end of school anyway, and in those two months Grace spent more time visiting schools than attending one. The summer had been a whirlwind of activity, but she'd narrowed it down to three: Finnegan's, Lapis Lazuli, or Frost. She held up the three separate pamphlets and sighed. She had two days to decide. She listened to Tabbot's breathing and said, "Lapis Lazuli School for the Gifted," to him. She felt his breathing pause, and he growled a little in his dreams. She laughed and set it aside. "So, not that one then." She shifted as his muscles twitched, chasing after something. "Frost," she read, and he calmed for a little. She put that one down on the opposite side of her as the Lapis Lazuli pamphlet, and then read, "Finnegan's School for Talent." She paused and waited for a reaction. Nothing happened. She sighed and was about to put it in the pile with the Frost school in it when Tabbot kicked her by accident, running again in his dreams. She shook her head.

"Frost it is, then," she muttered, "Since you're so bossy about it." Frost had been one of her top two choices, actually, that and Finnegan's. The Lapis Lazuli one had been a little too pretentious for her. The only problem was that the Frost school was so far away, tucked up in the Kanto mountains. She knew it had a gorgeous campus, but getting there was a battle. It was one of the only schools she hadn't visited. Finnegan's was closer, but it was also much bigger. She might get lost in the constant shuffle of students. In Frost, at least her stepmother couldn't get to her. But then, neither could her friends. They warned that pokegear service was iffy up there, so staying in touch would be hard. And she loved her friends. Her stepmom was a different story.

She shifted onto her side, using her Absol as a pillow. She put down Finnegan's pamphlet and dug her fingers into his soft, snowy fur. She knew he would love it up there. They stipulated that pokemon were allowed to roam as they wished, so long as there was no unsupervised fighting. Tabbot hated fighting. She hated making Tabbot fight. He was so sweet. She sighed, patting him absently. He would be coming with her, no matter what.

"He's not coming with you," Amy said, a week later, as Grace jostled with her bags in the doorway. It was time to go, and Tabbot knew it. He lay at her feet loyally, his ears against his head. He didn't like the sound of Amy's voice. Grace huffed angrily and dragged her fingers through her hair. She wondered what her father was doing right now. He had written her a long letter, as was usual, and congratulated her a hundred times. He'd sent a picture of him and about forty children, all who he had helped in some way. She had felt guilty about it. Here she was, safe, happy, healthy. It wasn't her place to ask her father to come home, not with children suffering like that.

Grace sighed. "Dad said it was fine if Tab came. He'll act as my protector or something," she told her stepmother, who was glaring at the large ball of fur. Amy's Meowth hid behind her ankles and snarled quietly at Tabbot.

Amy rolled her eyes and stated, "Please. He won't even growl at Muffy. Some protector he'd make. And he's too big. And wild. And dirty."

Grace laid one defensive hand on his back. Even lying down, he came up to her knees. But then, she wasn't exactly tall. "He's clean!" she protested, "His fur is white. You'd notice if he was dirty, wouldn't you? Yeah, you would. Also, he's less wild than your stupid Muffy, you can bet that. And just because he's _civil_ doesn't mean he wouldn't protect me."

"Well," Amy offered, "Why can't you take a different pokemon? You have that little Snubull, or that Houndour…"

In response, Tabbot rose to his feet, shook out his fur, and left the house. Grace lifted her bags and grinned at Amy. "Everything else is in the cab already," she said, "Time to go, I guess." She danced her way down their front steps, ignoring the commands from her stepmother. She fled into the car where Tabbot had already made himself at home across the floor. She settled in and waved jovially to Amy, who was shouting at her. Grace held one hand to her ear and mimed that she couldn't hear, even though she could. The cabdriver chuckled and started the engine.

Amy was still yelling as they drove away. "Yeah," the driver said, his accent twanging, "I had me a mother like that. Can't blame ya for leavin'." He paused. "Although," he noted, "She did make some awful nice cookies."

Grace grinned. "Well," she allowed, "She is good at giving orders."

The look Tabbot sent her made her grin. No, she knew what Amy was best at wasn't commanding. It was yelling. Grace peered out of the back window. From the looks of it, Amy was still employing that talent.

She would be for a very long time, but Grace wasn't around to hear it.

X-X

**Cast of characters by order of appearance:**

**Mika Jones: The Lemonator****  
First appearance: Chapter Two  
Talent: Fighting**

**Rhyme Genesis: Happy2Bme  
First appearance: Chapter Two  
Talent: Photography/cons**

**Caen Marx: A Half-Empty Glass  
First appearance: Chapter Two  
Talent: Fighting/Krav Maga**

**Tobi Mizuki: WolfSummoner93  
First appearance: Chapter Two  
Talent: Filmmaking**

**Davion Wickins: Absh  
First appearance: Chapter Two  
Talent: Modeling/dancing/swimming**

**Tarrow Arcana: Formerly Chilltown  
First appearance: Chapter Two  
Talent: Tarot/sword handling**

**Nathan: pepperpizzapal  
First appearance: Chapter Two  
Talent: Writing  
**

**Izamina (Izzy) Tessman: Korona Karyuudo  
First appearance: Chapter Three  
Talent: Violin/music**

**Tommi Brace Rua: SoujaGurl  
First appearance: Chapter Three  
Talent: Writing/leading/hating country music**

**Kratch Hayes Farcett: Mysterious Panther  
First appearance: Chapter Four  
Talent: Piano/music**

**Yuki Koori: Kei's-Girl****  
First appearance: Chapter Four  
Talent: Singing**

**Will Rio: fgtfgtr****  
First appearance: Chapter Four  
Talent: Photography**

**Jarel Wayne: Bearded Zeus  
First appearance: Chapter Four  
Talent: Drawing/writing/boxing**

**Orson Leander Raymond: tinfoilman4  
First appearance: Chapter Four  
Talent: Football/people skills**

**Sage: ultima-owner  
First appearance: Chapter Five  
Talent: Art**

**Ike Rend: Arcanine Fan  
First appearance: Chapter Nine  
Talent: Intelligence/science**

**Thompson Baltimore: Lucariofan  
First appearance: Chapter Ten  
Talent: Psychology**

**Felix Masque: Tyltalis  
First appearance: Chapter Ten  
Talent: Magic/illusions/fighting**

**Jason Cyran: TT749  
First appearance: Chapter Eleven  
Talent: Filmmaker**

**Tayln Lynch: FFalta  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Talent: Fighting/agility**

**Spirit Ikusa: Tyltalis  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/Fighting**

**Cam Blake: Korona Karyuudo  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/Physical education**

**Justin Montgomery: Juicetin Boo  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/English  
**

**Nicholai Finetivus: SoujaGurl  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/English/Pysch**

**Mr. Grain: Kenzur  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/Science**

**Richard Lenard: pepperpizzapal  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/Science/history**

**Mako Wolff: WolfSummoner93  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/Music**

**Avalon Vera: Korona Karyuudo  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Talent: Being generally awesome**

**Kaylee Norad: pepperpizzapal  
First appearance: Chapter Twelve  
Teacher/Photography/foreign language/history**

**Mi-Yeong (Mimi) Lee: kurochanwithwings  
First appearance: Chapter Thirteen  
Talent: Music****  
**

**Walter Garson: Arcanine Fan  
First appearance: Chapter Thirteen  
Teacher/Science/math/strategies**

**Patches Lee Brown: DoahShadow****  
First appearance: Chapter Fourteen  
Talent: Dance**

**Carmen Prescott: WereDragon EX  
First appearance: Chapter Fourteen  
Talent: Swimming/Psychology**

**Chapter Fifteen will introduce the rest of the new characters.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N: Thank you to everyone who submitted a character :) I am still accepting characters, so if you just discovered this and think it sounds like a fun idea, go fill out the form in chapter one. I'd love to have you.**

x-------x

He tumbled out of the car in one breath, hitting the ground with instinct precision.

Causally, as if he hadn't just dodge-rolled out of a moving vehicle, he removed the helmet from his head, executed a perfect hair flip, and replaced his iron cage.

_Oh wait_, he thought. _People saw that._ He coughed awkwardly and shifted his sword farther up his back. He hunched his shoulders and tried not to look to conspicuous. "Yeah," he muttered to himself, "If you pretend you didn't just leap out of a moving car like some manic ninja, _maybe no one will notice._" He congratulated himself on standing out before even the first day of school. Hadn't that been his goal? To not ostracize everyone right away? He grimaced. Yeah, so far, so good.

A slim man in a dark green satin suit and little matching hat trotted up next to him. "Excuse me, sir; may I have your name?" The little porter asked, watching the knight's visor expectantly. There was silence.

"Mika... Mika Jones," he said haltingly, realizing he would eventually have to answer. It echoed around the black metal surrounding him, making the name sound grim and hollow. Mika growled a little at the people staring at him. What, they'd never seen a knight before? So what he was covered in metal sheathing, if they understood both the comfort and defensive qualities that having –

"Mr. Jones? Will you be taking any bags with you?" The porter interrupted his thoughts. Mika nodded vaguely while the car he had jumped out of screeched around the parking lot and back towards him. It swung to a halt right in front of him, and the driver's side flew open. A tall, thin woman burst out and hugged Mika, wrapping her fragile arms around him.

"Oh, Mika! Mika! My baby! What did I tell you? What did I say? I said wait, I'd find us a parking space. Baby, don't ever scare me like that again! Do you hear me? Actually, let's go home. It's too dangerous here! What if that fall killed you? Are you hurt? Let's go home, sugar," His mother cooed and flew around him like a startled bird. Mika sighed. Yeah, people were staring. So much for blending or whatever it is real kids do.

"I can't go home, mom," Mika stated, and started pulling bags out of the car. As he reached his hands into the back seat, a little ball of black and yellow fur sprang out, hitting the ground and growling at everything it saw. Mika hissed a warning at his Umbreon and it quit growling, but it still glared at all of the people passing by. Mika sent him an affectionate look. So maybe he wasn't cute and charming. But hey, he was Mika's, and that was all that mattered.

He yanked the bags onto the ground and observed the distance from his mother's illegal parking space to the wrought-iron gates that surrounded the school. It was about a half-mile, up the winding black tar towards the pristine bricks that made up the campus. Everywhere was clipped green grass and cleanliness. The school's black roofs echoed darkness into the blue sky, and its clear glass windows promised empty classrooms. Mika took a snapshot in his mind. It looked like his future.

"Mika? Mika darling?" His mother skittered after him and didn't do much to help him unload the car. "Are you sure about this school? It's just that I've never heard about it before this, it's so strange, I mean I thought I had all of the talent schools memorized, but suddenly this new one shows up, and I just don't _know_, Mika. It's so hard to contact you when you're way up here in the mountains. Won't you be lonely? Tired? Hungry? Why don't we go home? It's nice there. Warm."

Mika shook his head and clicked his tongue at the Umbreon, who was growling at a big white Absol. The little creature was far out-massed, but didn't appear too concerned. The Absol just looked a little affronted, shifting its crimson eyes towards his master. "Hey!" Mika called to the black bundle of fury, "Behave!" The Umbreon snorted and trotted back to his master's side, before lying down at his feet, licking the yellow circle on his left hind leg. The girl who had just witnessed her pokemon being abused frowned a little and adjusted her black shirt. Mika liked the little black butterfree clip she had in her hair. It looked like sunshine. He paused and blinked. What was he, an interior decorator? Sure, the girl knew how to dress – all black – but now was not the time. Plus, her Absol seemed sort of wimpy. Shouldn't have at least growled or something?

Mika crawled back into the car and clicked his tongue. "Alright, where are you?" He called. From under the back seat came a little scurrying sound and his Charmeleon appeared, grinning at his master. "Hey, you, help me with these bags," He ordered, but he rubbed his gloved hand over the red skin lovingly. It chirped an agreement and hefted things, all while Mika's mother was still talking. He noticed this a little guiltily. What was she even saying? He'd tuned her out ten minutes ago.

"Are you sure? I mean, it's very pretty here, the grounds are very, very well kept, but darling, I'm not allowed past the gate, and what if you need me? Surely you need me. What if you don't fit in? I love you very much, but I mean, couldn't you not wear _quite_ so much armor in public? Just cut down a little is all that I am saying. Just a little. Maybe the chest plate. Or the gloves. And, Mika, dear, what did we say about the helmet? Please, dear, take it off. Just for a little bit. And you wear so much black underneath! Why not just a little color? Maybe a nice tie. Or some nice jeans. I just don't understand the sweatpants, darling, I mean, with your figure you could pull off anything, but don't you think jeans would be…better?" She babbled as her son took his share of the bags. The porter, who had been silent the entire time, shouldered some of the burden too, secretly grinning. The bird-woman amused him to no end.

"Mika!" She half-screeched. Mika paused their little trek. "I refuse to see you enter a new school wearing that helmet! Take. It. Off!" She looked close to tears. Mika growled and yanked it off his head, his brown hair swishing out in the movement. "There!" He rumbled, "Are you happy?"

The little woman frowned and licked her thumb before rubbing a speck off her protesting son's face. "Darling, what are we going to do about that scar? I know the plastic surgeon said it was too close to your eye to do anything about it, but I don't know. I've been talking to this old medicine woman and she's very smart. She was thinking tea and some herbal remedies might clear it up. You know her. She's in that tall building? Sweet as pie. Anyway, it's just been so long, you would have thought it would have healed by now…"

Mika's dark blue eyes threw ice into her soft brown ones. "Mother," he snarled, "It is a scar. They do not heal magically. Not with herbs. Not with potions. The point of scars is that they don't heal_._ That's why it's a scar and not a cut. Get over it." He swung his head back around and focused on walking. Up ahead, the brunette in black he'd seen earlier tripped over herself and almost fell on her face. She rolled with it though, as if she was dodging lasers. Mika's eyebrows shot up his face. He hadn't pegged her as a gymnast talent, given her body type, but she seemed pretty well trained. Her Absol just paused in walking as she jumped back to her feet, rearranged the bags she was carrying, and grinned apologetically at her porter. No one else was near her. It didn't seem like her parents had come to send her off. Mika wanted nothing so much as to trade positions with her. His mother, meanwhile, was already back on a tangent.

"You know, darling, I wouldn't be telling you this if I didn't love you so much, but so many weapons? I mean, when are you going to find the time to use them all? And what if you hurt yourself? Do you know how far the nearest hospital is? I just don't trust the nursing staff here. I haven't met them. Maybe I should just, you know, break the rules a little bit. See how they are. And then leave. Actually, let me come in with you. Then, if you don't like it, you can come home with me. And darling, is that huge sword really necessary? You carry it around everywhere. Your teachers always complain to me about it. And four sets of shuriken? Are you planning on being attacked? Why four? Isn't three enough? Isn't two? Exactly how many shuriken does it take to kill a man? And on that note, I don't know how comfortable I am with your choice in…employment. Maybe we should go home, put half of this stuff back at the stores, and call it quits. Is that a mace I see? Darling!"

Mika paused and very slowly dragged his eyes to the flighty creature shadowing him. "Mother," he purred dangerously, "What sort of school is this?"

The question offset her. She tripped a little in her speech and replied, "A…a talent school." She furrowed her brows and looked at him curiously. A sticky-sweet smile was plastered on his face like smeared icing. "What is my talent, mother?" He chirped.

"W-w-well, its weapons, I guess. Battle," She stumbled over her words, looking upset. She looked down and started wringing her hands. Mika beamed until it was a grim, repossessed version of a smile. "I guess I'm going to need those weapons, then, huh?" He stated, snapping the words in his mouth like bubble gum. His mother just nodded, but then started fretting again. "I just don't know the sort of faculty they have, or the classes, or even their political agenda. And, really, I understand the bow and arrow – maybe – but the sword? Its four feet long! It makes you look shorter, you know. Don't you ever worry what girls think?"

Mika rolled his eyes and then squinted at the gates in front of them. It was going to be a long walk.

xxxxxx

Rhyme walked right into her. She was standing in front of the black and copper gate like the rest of the crowd. He stumbled back and muttered an apology, and pulled a face when her dark eyes glared at him. She must have been a whole nine inches taller than he was, and maybe that was why he started talking.

"Wow, there certainly a lot of people here, wow, yep, a lot of people." He rose up on his toes, trying to see over the heads of the people around him, but of course he couldn't. What was he thinking? He was, what, five feet tall, last time he checked? "Wow, yeah, wow. Do you think they'll let the upperclassmen in first, like last year? Yeah, that was so cool. So cool. I wish I was a freshman again. That year was so cool. Yep, wow," He chattered.

She slid her clear hazel eyes down towards him and adjusted her bag so it was farther up her shoulder. Maybe something was wrong with him. Maybe he didn't notice the huge Rhydon next to her? His tiny Vulpix was cowering behind him, looking up at the rock creature with what might have been awe. Caen sighed and put one hand on her pokemon. She'd spent forever and three weeks working on Tremor to get her to evolve. Caen sighed. Tremor's grey skin was covered in battle scars, if you looked hard enough. It made her heart hurt. Maybe she'd been working her pokemon too hard. Wait, was that kid still talking?

"…It's so great, all this fresh talent! And the best part is the system. I mean, I love the system. It doesn't matter what age you're scouted at, right? Am I right? 'Cause everyone's a freshmen in their first year. Wow. Just wow. I wish I had my camera. Wow. Yep. Wow. Oh have you met Lilian? That's my Vulpix? Isn't Lili pretty? She's so pretty. I love your Rhydon, by the way, wow, it's so big, wow."

"Her name is Tremor," Caen informed him, in her caramel voice. She put one hand on her grey shadow, which was sort of grunt-singing under her breath. It made a cute little noise of acknowledgement to the much smaller boy and opened its grey arms for a hug. Caen sighed and tapped its rough skin lightly. "Don't hug strangers, Tremor," She half-chided.

Rhyme seemed elated. "Oh my gosh I just remembered, I haven't told you my name. It's Rhyme. Like, clock and tock and mock and sock and rock and lock and…anyways I'm so excited it's my second year, yeah. You look old, what are you, sixteen?" He chattered.

Caen just sighed and looked through the crowd to the gate ahead. She drew her mocha hand through her messy hair and wished she hadn't said anything. She'd been doing fine ignoring him, thank you very much, and then she actually had to speak. What, was she possessed? Then again, maybe _he_ was possessed. Also, she was _nineteen_, thank you very much. Stupid sophomore. What, did she look that immature? And come on, clearly she wasn't listening to a word he was saying.

She watched him in his fidgety excitement. She had actually progressed to the stage of boredom where she was blocking out literally every word he was saying. It was like his mouth was moving and no sound was coming out. And wow, his mouth was moving fast. He darted his black eyes to and fro with excitement, bouncing up and down on his heels. He fiddled with the snaps on his black cargo pants and continually messed with the sleeves on his striped shirt. Caen watched in abstract fascination as his wrists, covered in bright thread bracelets, flitted here and there with wild abandon.

Wait, was he still talking?

xxxxxxx

"It's fine," He told his mother, as she fixed his collar. He looked down at the pavement and tried not to look at her. In his head, the camera clicked and moved into sepia, where the tapes started whirring and a voiceover announced, _Welcome, welcome, welcome,_ in a joyful male voice. Then there would be a slow pan in to the gates, cue unmanned swinging open, lights dim. Flash of title. Maybe an artistic statement. An eye maybe. Just one eye, opening.

"Were you even listening to what I just said?" His mother sighed, and he pulled a face. She shook her head. "_Listen,_ Tobi. I said your father and I are going back to the car now. As soon as you can, call us and tell us how it went. You have my number? Yes? Ok. Your father's work number? Alright. Remember to write." She kissed him on the cheek and he rolled his eyes, rubbing off her lipstick. His father clapped him on the back and nodded, then took his wife by the arm and led her away. Tobi faced the gates and put one hand on Kota, who butted his owner's hand playfully. Tobi smiled and absentmindedly pet the Cubone while in his head he imagined the sort of movies he could make. A horror movie seemed like it would work the best. Something dark. Something dangerous.

He was interrupted by someone playing with his face. He spluttered and moved back. "What," He breathed, "Are you doing?"

In front of him was a very handsome youth, who still had one hand stretched out awkwardly. He didn't apologize at all, but stood there silently, like he was a doll that ran out of batteries. Tobi jerkily stretched out his hand and waved it in front of the boy's face questioningly. The dark eyes followed the movement, but the body did not react. Frankly, it was freaking Tobi out.

Davion didn't know what to do. He'd been fascinated because the guy standing in front of him looked pretty much exactly the same. Except Davion was, you know, hotter. Plus this guy had black hair instead of dark blonde. And light, woeful blue eyes instead of chestnut brown. But other than that, and the fact Davion was muscled like there was no tomorrow, they had pretty much the same bone structure. Also, what was this guy doing with his bangs spiked like that? Had someone told him to do that?

"What exactly are you wearing?" Tobi questioned the nonresponsive youth. His touchy-feely counterpart had unbuttoned his white shirt into a low V-neck that exposed tanned skin, and was wearing too-tight pants that showed off his toned body. He looked like he had walked out of an 80's fashion ad. The other boy just dropped his arm and picked up his Growlithe. Tobi smiled a little. So he wasn't so bad, if he worked with this kind of pokemon. Around the blonde's feet wove a slim Zangoose, who was pretty much purring.

Tobi sighed and figured he might as well be friendly. That what people do, right? Make friends? "I'm Tobi," He said, and waited for the answer. When none came, he added, "This is Kota."

Davion's eyes light up like fireworks against the night. He stroked his Growlithe and commented, "Ginji," and then pointed to the Zangoose. "Jared." He paused and saw the expectant look on Tobi's face. Maybe he had left something out? He considered this while Tobi considered his mental abilities.

"Oh. Davion," He said, realizing what he had left out. Tobi rolled his eyes and looked away, back towards the gates. Davion shifted uncomfortably. He felt like it had been going well up until then. Did this mean they weren't going to be friends?

He just wanted some friends, was all. But he could never figure out how to make any.

xxxxxxx

Grace shifted uncomfortably and touched the Butterfree clip in her hair. It had pale green swirls that held the light, clashing against the black wings. When she had seen it, she had to have it. It was that sort of thing.

Like a ghost, a blue-robed figure glided up next to her. A wicked grin was set across his fair skin. He extended a thin claw filled with tarot cards towards her and purred, "Your fortune read. One hundred percent accurate, one thousand percent of the time. For a small – _small_ – fee, your entire life will be made known. No nasty surprises! No fear!"

Grace looked to the left and right of her awkwardly, then figured out he was talking to her. "What? Me? Oh. Oh, no thank you," She said, and put her hand on Tabbot. She wondered where her porter had gone to. After they'd reached the gate, he promised to return later, and sort of melted into the crowd. She was uncomfortable when he left. She was one of the only kids she'd seen that were dropped off by someone other than a parent. Tabbot, at least, would never leave her.

The boy in front of her made the cards disappear like magic and then steepled his fingers. He seemed to consider her briefly, before aristocratically offering one slim hand for her to shake. She took it awkwardly, not sure exactly how one greats a tall boy in a set of too-large wizard robes. Her skin looked ridiculously tan next to his pale tone.

"You know," he stated, retracting his arm, "I think you and I could get along. Very well. I think we must have similar talents. Observe – your aura matches mine." He purred, gesturing to the air around her. She followed his hand and tried to look knowledgeable. Maybe he really could see auras. Or perhaps he was crazy. The second was a legitimate thesis.

"I'm…I'm Grace," She said, and then bit her tongue. She could have said anything, any name on the planet. But no. She used her real name. So much for a fresh start. What was wrong with her? She touched the Butterfree for comfort. Maybe it was the clip. Usually she gave things like that away after awhile. She always felt guilty having real jewelry while her father was saving children from starvation.

The wizard bowed low before her, and his tall, crooked hat slipped in front of his green eyes. "I, Madame, am Tarrow. Pleased to make your acquaintance," He replied, tilting his dark blonde head up until he met her dark eyes. When she just looked really uncomfortable, he unbent and pulled his hand through his hair. What, was he not doing a good enough job at being a hero? Maybe if he played it up a little…

His thoughts were interrupted when her Absol suddenly rose to his feet and took a defensive stance against her side. He had his ears against his head, but wasn't growling. From the crowd came an annoyed squawking, something that the white beast had locked onto. Grace's brow furrowed. "What's the matter, Tab?"

From a group of people burst a furious Murkrow, followed by a panting trainer. The pokemon paused when it met the gaze of Tabbot, reconsidered, flew around in confusion, and smacked right into its owner. Grace grimaced as she watched the bundle of black clothes hit the ground, struggle with the creature, and get it back into the pokeball. By the end, he was completely out of breath. He stood and regarded Grace with cold blue eyes that reminded her of snow.

He met her dark chocolate eyes and forgot what he was about to say. He shifted his attention awkwardly to pretty much the last person he'd ever expected to see. A wizard that was drowning in a blue robe was shuffling tarot cards expertly. He got up off the ground and shifted his black jacket. He nodded uncomfortably and tried to escape the people he had just embarrassed himself in front of.

"Wait," The wizard purred, "Let me read your future first. It's guaranteed. Absolutely never have I been wrong. My tarot cards are the best in the world, and that is no exaggeration, my friend. None at all. Of course, they were very expensive, you understand, money for materials. So I have to work to be…reimbursed, as it were. For a very, very small fee, I'll make everything clear."

Grace yawned and twisted the watch on her wrist. "Don't do it!" She cried, laughing. "It's a scam!" She had been joking, but the look that washed Tarrow's face was strange, like he was caught in the act or something. Tabbot had calmed down and was back to lying at her feet. She loved that. He just inserted his body into everything.

The new boy dragged his hand through his shaggy brown hair shyly. "I'm Nathan," He muttered, refusing to meet his eyes. "Sor-sor-sorry about Akira. I just caught her. She-she-she's still pretty wild." He rolled the pokeball across his knuckles. Grace watched the movement with astonishment. She wished she could do that. She twisted the watch again and he noticed. He smiled a little. "I-I-I, um, I have a watch. I have a watch like that." He pulled back his black sleeve to show her, but his wrist was bare. His brow furrowed. "T-t-that's…I mean, I thought I had it this morning…" He trailed off, staring at the slight tan line that was all that was left of his watch.

Grace smiled and slipped it off her wrist. "Take it," She said, and when he shook his head, she stepped over Tabbot and attached it to his wrist before he could protest. The minute it connected with his skin, he felt like he shouldn't give it back. It felt right. He stared at it, disconcerted.

Grace nimbly rejoined her Absol, smiling. She never liked having things. She liked…

"I'm Tarrow, by the way," The wizard said, feeling like he was being left out. It wasn't fair. He carried around a baton for just this sort of occasion. All he needed was for her to give him a chance. And what was she doing, stealing his limelight? He felt like she was a little bit distant too. That, and something about that watch situation was a little off-putting. He tried to think. Was she wearing that watch when he first saw her? "And I happen to be a world class fencing talent. World class, I tell you…"

The rest of his words were swallowed by the polished copper and slick black gates yawning open, pushed by the porters in their green and white suits. Another line of them held back the crowd as slowly the copper-colored tiled path became accessible.

A low rumble echoed through the courtyard. In a voice like thunder, someone announced, "Presenting: the Dean of Frost School: Sir Harvey Gillian Frost!" A hush descended on the crowd. Grace grinned in anticipation. Tabbot, meanwhile, she was pretty sure, had fallen asleep.

A slim, tall figure in a dark green suit tapped down the pathway, twirling a cane. He smiled jovially, attached a microphone to his lapel, and crowed, "Welcome to the Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented!" To which the crowd erupted in a fury. Grace smiled and took a step back, accidentally bumping into a stranger. She apologized and refocused. The Dean was speaking again.

"As per usual, those new to our school will remain outside. Upperclassmen, file through. And let me remind you. There will be no unsupervised battling." His voice suddenly became a quiet fury, "Or there will be terrible, horrible consequences."

This was followed by awkward silence, until the smile returned to his face. "Come on in, then!" He sang, and with a cry the group lunged forwards. Grace squealed as people bumped into her, but she was smiling. Everywhere around her was movement. She watched as people and pokemon of all types passed through the gates onto the gorgeous lawn. She dug her fingers into Tabbot's fur.

She grinned. "Alright, then, Tab. You ready?"

x-------x

**The characters I abused were lent by the following amazing people:**

**Mika Jones: The Lemonator  
Rhyme Genesis: Happy2Bme  
Caen Marx: A Half-Empty Glass  
Tobi Mizuki: WolfSummoner93  
Davion Wickins: Absh  
Tarrow Arcana: Formerly Chilltown  
Nathan:pepperpizzapal**

**Thank you very much. I hope you enjoyed my potrayal of your characters as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
**

**Take care.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A.N: Thank you again to everyone who submitted. I am still accepting characters, so if you feel like joining the revelry, just fill out the form in the first chapter and I will do my best to make your character shine.**

x-------x**  
**

She tossed her braids and waited for the crowd to settle around her. All of the freshmen were like rocks in a river, insignificant in the rush of the water. Around her swirled faces that gave her the same sort of look, like they had been past where she was standing, like they had been frozen alongside movement once as well. In each of their eyes she heard music, swelling in the pulse of people, twirling and dancing like leaves in a windstorm.

Beside her, Aster shook his white hair in frustration. He wanted to get going. Inside of her head, she felt his probing question, like words to her music. _We go?_ He thought, glancing up at her with confused golden eyes. She ruffled his hair and sank down to his height, smiling. "Not yet, Aster. We have to wait with the rest of the freshmen," she purred at him, and then rose back up to her full height. She felt his frustration like an inky swelling in the back of her mind, twisting with impatience. She understood exactly what her Shiftry was feeling. She blew out a long sigh and dragged her slim fingers through her autumn-gold tresses, letting the straight strands twirl their way back into place. She fiddled with one of the several braids she had in her hair and absently kissed the silver feather she had tied in there, just for luck. It made her feel better, like she wasn't alone, despite the way the music in her head trembled with a single, sorrowful violin chord.

_Izzy sad?_ She felt him question. She smiled and shook her head, and inside her mind little bells rang out. "No, not really. Just…a little scared I guess," She replied, and he reached up one leafed paw for her to hold. She laughed and took it, thanking him. He always knew exactly what to do, every single time.

Abruptly, the motion stopped, to a gong in Izzy's head. A little porter trotted up to her, smiled, and tipped his hat. "Name?" He asked, and she hastened, "Izamina Tessman. I'm a violinist?" She beamed at him, like a ray of sunshine. He missed it, instead marking something on his clipboard. Without any sort of explanation, he sort of danced away to the next person, evidentially disregarding the option to converse.

A knight in grim black armor bumped into her by accident, wrestling with a sword that was almost his height. He was muttering to himself through the helmet on his head, something about shuriken and how many knives it took to kill a man. He didn't apologize, but instead lifted his visor and sent her a glare through deep blue eyes. His right eyes dripped a dark scar down onto his cheek, making his gaze dark and sharp and somehow filled with woe. Izzy raised her eyebrows.

"What in Kanto are you wearing?" She asked, one hand on her hip. Her Shiftry stood in front of her, grunting a little with agitation. _No like man in metal,_ he thought at her, and she had to agree. Look, it wasn't _her_ fault he had no idea where he was going. Or that he had no sense of direction. Or that he couldn't just, you know, apologize for bumping into her. What, was chivalry dead or something?

He yanked it off his brunette head angrily. "For your information, I happen to be wearing a state-of-the-art suit of armor that is literally on the _cutting edge_ of basic defensive technology. I could faint – not that I would ever – in this suit, faint right off a cliff, and nothing would happen. I wouldn't get a scratch. I'm sorry that _I'm_ prepared for attack, whereas a young female like you could not possibly understand the protective qualities this suit entails," He replied, frowning with disgust.

She wanted to hit him over the head with a violin or something. In her mind, cymbals crashed with irritation. As was her personality, fire met with fire and did nothing but consume. "For _your_ information, I happen to be an individual with an _advanced _education, so not only could I probably outwit you, I am lighter and therefore I will be able to escape easier. In the time it takes you to swing that impossibly large sword you are toting around, I will have taken a strategically acceptable position and wrung your neck with a spare violin string," She growled.

He looked at her, shut his mouth, thought about this and asked, in a much calmer voice, "So where do you think they're taking us?" As if nothing had transpired at all. Since he was calm, she was calm. Hey, it wasn't like she was unreasonable or anything. She just didn't like it when people attacked her. Who did?

She shrugged in response to his question. "Dunno," She mused, "I suspect someplace nice for our initiation. I mean, this is actually the first time I've been to this campus, so I have no idea what it looks like really." She paused. "Also, hello, my name is Izzy."

He grinned. "Mika. And me too. I mean, this is the first time I've been able to get to the campus too. Actually it's the first time I've even heard about this school." He paused as a single porter strode to the middle of the crowd and coughed for attention. He inhaled and thundered, "All freshman! Please follow me. If you fall behind, shout, and someone will help you. Alright then? Off we go!" He called, and started off at a brisk pace. Mika and Izzy shuffled to follow, along with the forty other freshmen. They walked alongside the gate to a path that tumbled up the mountains, past the school, following the bend of the forest. It twisted out of sight in the darkness of the trees.

Izzy realized she was still holding Aster's paw and smiled. He trotted along beside her, humming to the music he heard in her head. Mika stalked along her other side, trailed by a Charmeleon and an Umbreon. Izzy smiled. She loved taking walks in the woods. She loved everything about the woods. She tossed her hair and watched Mika lumber along. "So," She started, "Explain this whole outfit to me."

He sighed, exasperated. "First of all, it's not an 'outfit,' its _armor_; secondly, I wear it because my talent happens to be in the handling of many weapons you probably have never heard of. This armor makes sure I don't die. Because my talent involves dying. And death. And things like being amazing without trying."

"Really?" Izzy smiled, "Because my talent just involves the amazing bit. That's so strange! It's like we're talent twins," She noted, because at this point she didn't feel like arguing. Clearly he had some temper issues. She was joking, considering her talent was being a musician, but Mika just looked confused. "So," She said, after an awkward silence, "I had this dream last night. It was sort of funny," She paused and chuckled a little at herself. "I guess it was a nightmare, or whatever. Maybe because I was a little nervous about the school or something. Anyway there was this scientist or some guy in it. And fire, I guess. All over me. I mean, how ridiculous is that?"

Mika twisted his head to the side and helped his Charmeleon over a log. "Weird," he said, "_Déjà vu_." He squinted at the horizon through the trees as they trekked. "Hey, how long are we supposed to be out here?" He asked, shifting his black armor to scramble under a tree branch. Izzy shrugged. Whatever happened, happened.

She looked up to the horizon too, where slowly, slowly, night started spreading its shadows deeper and deeper across the forest. Instantly she felt unease touch her bones. But no, she promised herself, she wouldn't be scared. They were safe. This path was just dimly lit, was all.

But they kept walking and the shadows kept spreading until they were just two people in a flood of movement, just one note in a symphony of promises.

xxxxxxx

A boy with grey hair whistled softly to his partner, before creeping along with virtually no sound at all. He listened to the answering twirl of notes and grinned, his tawny eyes reflecting the darkness. He pushed off the balls of his feet and darted forwards, sounding like the wind, sounding like the rain.

It wasn't long now.

xxxxxxx

The porter seemed to have melted into the darkness. Nathan peered at the teenagers in front of him, skittish as he felt. Next to him, silent on her feet, padded Grace, who was humming quietly. He kept a respectful distance. She wasn't strikingly pretty or anything, but Nathan was never a "people" person. And, despite the way words twisted to his whim, when he spoke, they tumbled like chalk and splintered against the air.

"S-s-s-s-s-so," He started, but when her dark, glittering eyes looked at him, he had to stop. He faced ahead and tried to think of her as someone he was already friends with. He figured there was a way he'd made friends before, right? He knew there had been talking involved in those relationships, but he couldn't remember a single thing he'd said. He bit his lip. Exactly what was wrong with him? He cleared his throat and rolled his Murkrow's pokeball over and over his knuckles like a waterfall. He watched the way it reflected the light and tried again. "So, I'm a w-w-writer."

Grace nodded, but he didn't see her. He was watching the path, watching the trees, watching the people in front of him, anything but her. She waited for him to elaborate, but when met with silence, she had to intervene. "Alright, then…uh, what sort of things do you write?"

Instantly his slate blue eyes lit up and words worked their way back onto his tongue, like rain in the desert. "The world is lined with white picket fences, trails of tar, and rivers of endless wisdom," He said softly, speaking into the night. He rolled the pokeball over the back of his hand, around his wrist, and continued, "We survive off the misery of others."

Grace looked at him, astonished. Not only had he not stuttered, but the words had rung in her head like the finishing notes of music, endlessly repeating. They sounded like freedom – they twisted and turned and danced. "Ok, then," She said, slowly. "I guess you are a writer."

He smiled and looked at her, but only for an instant, before going back to watching the ground. "Sorry," He mumbled, "Sometimes it slips out." He shifted in his jacked as they rounded a crest and came upon an open field, surrounded by the dense forest. Students made little groups around fires, teaming up against the darkness.

"So," Grace said, twisting the watch on her wrist, "I guess we sleep here tonight." Nathan furrowed his brow and wriggled his jacket sleeve back so he could see his wrist. "Hey," He commented, "When did I give you my watch?"

Grace smiled and slipped it off, sliding it to him. "You dropped it, remember?" She purred, and Nathan shook his head. But then, he hadn't really been looking at her, or anything. Maybe it had dropped. He would have been too busy avoiding her eyes.

"Alright, then," She sang, and skipped to an empty space. Her Absol trotted next to her as she stomped down a circle in the long grass. The white beast bounced along happily, as if staying outside in the darkness was normal. Nathan bit his lip and followed her. He figured that Absols could sense danger. Tabbot would do something if there was disaster about to happen.

Right?

xxxxxxx

Davion trotted across the plain with Tobi in tow. The black-haired one sighed, tired from the climb. The person he'd inadvertently made friends with hadn't been much for talking, so the entire trip had been spent in silence. In Tobi's head reeled the horror movie, where creatures from the deep darkness skulked into the clearing, on a mission to kill. He was sort of unsure as to why he was following the attractive boy – it wasn't like his counterpart was all there, per say.

Davion noticed the girl in black awhile ago. He liked her. She had just nodded to him and gave him a smile, but didn't appear attracted. This bothered him for some reason. Was he doing something wrong? Maybe he was doing something wrong. He was determined to make it right again, as soon as he figured out how to. But first, he had to talk to her. He'd been following her from the moment they set out.

Tobi watched Davion's stride across the plain to a short girl who was shaped like an hourglass, her dark clothes letting her blend in the night. Tobi grinned as they got closer because in his head he saw her dark eyes lift, peer into the camera, then a gasp, and then her hair, sweeping out in a wave as she fell. She looked like monster bait, all right.

Tobi was not surprised when he ended up having to make introductions. Davion just stood there in the circle Grace had made, holding his Growlithe and staring at her. TObi ran his hand through his hair awkwardly, watching as Nathan gathered sticks for a fire. Across the plain, little spots of flame licked at the darkness. Davion watched this process and put down Ginji, his little fire pokemon. It bent forwards and with great care blew life onto the timber, letting fire crawl from his maw. Davion then sat down abruptly, an action that was then followed awkwardly by the other three people.

They talked for awhile, getting to know each other, watching as one by one the other campfires flickered and went out. Grace smiled and noted that the rest of the people were going to sleep, and they lowered their voices. Tabbot put his head on her lap and fell asleep, something that made Nathan comfortable as he listened to the grass shift.

The wind whistled, and suddenly the four were enveloped in sticky, horrible, unnatural darkness. Nathan felt Grace's muffled shriek echo in his head, until with a sickening crack he felt nothing at all.

x-------x

**Sorry! I know a lot of people's characters did not show up in this chapter, but that is probably because they are upperclassmen. Please forgive me! D: I love all of your characters and felt really bad not mentioning them.**

**New characters who I deconstructed:**

**Izamina Tessman: ****Korona Karyuudo  
Tommi Brace Rua: SoujaGurl**

**Also, I would like to apologize to Korona because I shamelessly stole two years from her character's life in order to use her. The character is actually eighteen but for her to really fit as a freshmen I wanted her to be sixteen. Sorry! And thank you. **

**I hope you enjoyed this installment. **

**Take care.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**A.N: I am still accepting characters, so if you think "wow I am cool I should also take part in this" please fill out the form in the first chapter and I will gladly accept your character. I will never outright deny a submission, so don't be afraid :)  
**

X-------X

One.

Two.

Three.

Her heartbeats thudded like slow thunder against her chest, echoing in her ears. She felt every pulse with her entire body, but she was content. That steady thump was a reminder she was still alive. One, two, three.

She tried to think. What happened? One moment, she'd been with her new friends, beside a little lackluster fire, trying to get warm, when suddenly there was nothing but a low whistle and a horrible sound inside her head, like breaking glass. Had that been her? Had it been her bones? She took inventory. Nothing hurt too badly. She paused and then changed her mind. Her head hurt like the devil. She furrowed her brow and then realized she still had her eyes closed. She had fainted, hadn't she? Someone had knocked her out. Every idea inside of her head swirled liked water around a drain: always leaving.

Abruptly, she remembered her pokemon and jerked upright. She had to blink to focus her eyes, but from what she could see she was on a bed in a lavender dorm room. About three feet away, another bed sat, covered in luggage. Across from the foot of her bed was a thick oak door, and in between was a desk on either wall. She peered at the one on her side of the room. Wasn't that her binder? Her notebook? Oh my god, was that her keyboard? She jumped out of the bed and sprinted for it, petting it lovingly. "Oh," she murmured, "Don't worry, mommy's here." She examined the rest of her desk. Yep, right there, on her binder: _Kratch Farcett. _So clearly this was her dorm room, which begged the question how exactly she got here. Kratch bit her lip and searched for the rest of her luggage. Was that hers on the other bed? Maybe she got two beds? She doubted that, instead ducking her head to the floor. Oh. There they were: under her bed, someone had stashed all of her belongings. She yanked them out and threw them onto the bed like her roommate had, pawing through them wildly. Where was Lux? Where was Skit?

The door suddenly opened and Kratch froze. What if it was the person who knocked her out, back to torture her? She gripped her bag and tensed. If it turned out to be someone dangerous, she would throw it as a distraction and then attack. She had some training in kickboxing. She could probably win if she had the added power of surprise. She bit her lip and watched whoever it was pad into the room.

It wasn't a maniac scientist or a corrupt dictator. It was a girl, grinning and dancing. "Oh my gosh, are you my roommate? That's so cool! Hi! I'm Yuki! Oh my gosh! I love your hair," she noted, and Kratch self-consciously dragged her hand through her black short hair. The new girl, she noted, had short black hair too, but it looked sort of dyed, and had a red streak darting through the right side. Kratch figured someone had to be cool to have the same hairstyle as she did. Because she was cool. Right?

"I'm Kratch," she said, relaxing. She watched the way Yuki's sapphire earrings caught the light, entranced. The peppy girl seemed to shake her head for the sheer purpose of making the jewelry move. "Oh my gosh!" Yuki cried, "That's such a cool name! Hey, I'm so glad we're going to be roommates. I bet we're going to get along really well," she chattered, and Kratch smiled. Yuki's voice sounded like honey. Hers sounded like a scratched rose next to it. She wasn't particularly self-deprecating, but it was sort of obvious that in at least one regard she was not on the same level as her roommate.

"So you're a music talent, huh?" Kratch guessed, and Yuki exploded in glee. "Oh my gosh, how did you know? Yeah, totally! I'm a singer! I sing! Hey, is that your keyboard? Does that mean you're a pianist? That's so cool! We can get together and start a band. It can be called The Kratch and Yuki band. Hey, if you combine Kratch and Yuki, what do you get? Kruti?"

"I am a pianist," Kratch said, laughing and starting to unpack. Her roommate joyfully followed her lead, humming as she did so. Kratch bit her lip again and tasted blood. She paused and shook her head a little. She knew she wasn't supposed to chew her lips so much, but it helped her think. "Hey," she said to Yuki, "Do you know where we are? What happened to us? Where our pokemon are?"

The little one shook her head violently. It seemed so childish that Kratch smiled. She sort of liked the explosive energy her roommate had. Yuki took out a skirt from her suitcase and sang, "I don't know. I just woke up like three seconds ago and I left the room and we're in a really long hallway. So I guess we're in Frost? I don't know, but I'm super excited," she paused, considered, and then murmured, "I do worry about my darlings right now, though." Yuki looked up and peered at her taller counterpart for a little bit before regaining her enthusiasm. "Oh my gosh! I knew I saw you someplace else! You were totally in front of me while we were climbing the mountain! I was totally going up to talk to you when all of a sudden I hurt really bad and then I woke up here and then I left and then I met you and now it's ok except that I don't know where Flare is and he really really really hates not being with me," she chattered joyfully.

"Flare?" Kratch asked, taking out a pair of pants. She had discovered that the bedside table was actually a low dresser, and sort of took pleasure in organizing. She would normally be going wild right about now, searching for her pokemon, but she clung to the hope that somewhere, tucked into a shirt or inside of a pocket, she'd find the red and white ball that held her life.

"He's my Cyndaquil. He's super-protective of me. Like, _super._ Oh my gosh, what if someone stole Ryu? He's a Dratini. They're like, super super super rare. Oh my gosh. I mean, they're worth a ton, the two of them. Oh my gosh. What if there's like, a thief and he like, tried to kill us and we're the only people left?" She looked like she was about to cry. Kratch didn't comment on her roommate's choice in pokemon. A Dratini would remain a weak little thing for about forty years. They evolved when they wanted to. They were disloyal little things, stubborn. Only naïve or overly optimistic people attempted to raise them. And to own a Cyndaquil was to say you not only liked a challenge, you liked pain. Their breed was prone to outbursts of serious heat. But hey, Kratch thought, it meant the girl had some serious connections. And so what. Maybe they were both the exception to the breed or whatever, for all she knew.

"Lux is a Luxio," Kratch supplied. "Skit is a Skitty." Her brother had given them to her. Thinking about him made her heart hurt. He did so much to make her happy. It was all she could do to just behave and stay in school. She smiled sadly to herself. How could she lose her pokemon so early in the year? They meant everything to her. Lux was a brave little fighter. She knew he was safe. She felt it in her bones.

They had to be safe. She would lose it if they weren't.

xxxxxxx

Mika woke up, smacked his lips and didn't bother opening his eyes. He slipped out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, slithered back to his dorm and collapsed on top of the sheets. His head hurt. He just wanted to sleep.

Something pressed into his side and he blearily opened one eye. A disgustingly good-looking boy was standing over him awkwardly, watching. "What," Mika said, before suddenly everything rushed back to him in a flash of light. He jerked upright.

"Alright," he growled, "Who took my armor?"

xxxxxxx

Nathan pried open his slate blue eyes to another boy ripping through a suitcase. Nathan sat up quietly and tried to figure out what to say. He tried to remember why his head hurt, but all he could think of was a hollow scream in his head and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Grace! What happened to Grace?

His counterpart looked up, biting his lip and scanning the room. "Oh, hey, good, you're awake. I'm Will, by the way. And my pokemon are missing," he said, ducking his head back down towards the suitcase. His long brown hair fell from behind his ear and he tucked it irritably back where it belonged. Nathan saw his eyes and instantly the words hit him. The lanky youth before him tipped over and observed the world through chromatic orbs. Mist-colored eyes darted with worry every which way.

Nathan felt like he should say something. Something witty. Something that would betray how smart he was, how well words bent in his head. Something that would make them both allies. Something that would make them friends instantly, so they could team up and get back the pokemon and save Grace too. His head supplied all sorts of fascinating repartee. He knew exactly what his character would say if this were a story instead of real life. Nathan would write in some clever thing that would save him from being shy. He would have tamed the beast. There would be partying. Some salsa, maybe.

Instead, he opened his mouth and said, "My head hurts."

xxxxxxx

Jarel opened his eyes from the darkness inside of him to the bright darkness outside. The way the world worked inside of his brain was the way reality worked: behind all the light was darkness. He just accepted it more than other people did. He shifted and noticed someone else was in the room with him.

"Howdy, pardner!" The other person sang. Jarel sat up and watched the other boy move around. They were sort of the same build: large, muscular. Honestly, Jarel didn't know who would win if they got into a fight. The tan boy was kneeling on the floor, looking under the bed. He reached over and pumped Jarel's chocolate hand jovially. "Well, I'm Orson. Orson Leander Raymond, if you so please. Yes sir. And currently I am tryin' to find my pokemon, if you so please."

Jarel nodded and slipped off his bed. He was worried, but he wasn't going to admit it. He paused as he searched the desk for any signs of a pokeball. "Oh," He said, in a voice that made Orson think of velvet, "I'm Jarel."

Orson looked up from under the bed. "Ya know, Jarel? I think you and I will be good friends, if you so please. Yes sir. I do believe we are going to git along real well," he chuckled, and Jarel smiled a little bit. It was an interesting change that someone wasn't scared of his size or quiet demeanor. Orson seemed quite content with the large boy in the room with him, and that was new for Jarel. Usually people squirmed or looked away, like he might punch them. Orson seemed unworried.

"Now then," Orson hummed, "If I don't do believe our pokemon have been taken from us." He paused and stood up, brushing himself off. "Now then, I am assumin' that between the two of us, we could probably fight whoever stood in our way. Aint nobody in this world that can stop us, if you so please." He stopped and pulled out his suitcase before continuing, "Also, I have a mighty hankerin' for some pasta. Does a man no good to work on an empty stomach. Who is it that thought they'd make me skip lunch? I would like to have a few words with them, if you so please. Yes sir."

Jarel grinned and started unloading his suitcase too, having searched the desk. He unloaded boxing gloves and sketchbooks and wondered if Orson would hate how quiet he was, but his new friend seemed unperturbed.

Actually, Orson sort of liked that Jarel was so silent. He was quite a good listener, he figured. And seriously, something needed to be done about this pasta situation. It just wasn't right, letting a man starve.

xxxxxxxx

Grace watched the girl sleep, trying not to be too creepy. The brunette glided soundlessly throughout the room and took her roommate's suitcase out from under the bed. She had gone crazy looking for Tabbot, and this was, she promised herself, the last place she could think to look. She knew that she'd met the strawberry blonde the night before, Izzy something. Grace shifted through the clothes, waiting for the telltale gleam of the pokeball. It didn't feel right without Tabbot there. It felt like she was doing something wrong.

Suddenly, Izzy sat bolt upright, gasping, "Daddy!" She blinked and returned to her body, staring at Grace, who was holding her pants in one hand and a shirt in the other. Grace nodded to her and went back to pawing through clothes.

"Um," Izzy said, and had to fish for the name before continuing, "Grace? What are you doing?" Grace smiled and replied, "Oh good, you're awake. Tabbot's missing. Sorry, I sort of got a little frantic. Your suitcase looks a lot like mine, so I thought they might have accidentally put my stuff under your bed, but they didn't." She put everything back carefully as she did this, and slid the suitcase under the bed a little sheepishly. Izzy smiled. She understood getting a little crazy over a missing pokemon. Now that she thought about it, she was starting to get uneasy too.

Grace slipped one smooth palm into Izzy's hand, smiling. "Hey," she hummed, "Are you ok?" Izzy looked up at her, startled by the sudden closeness the girl had, but there was nothing but caring in the pair of glittering eyes. Izzy furrowed her brow. "Why?"

Grace sat down gently. "You kinda called for your dad when you woke up, darling," she murmured, and Izzy looked down awkwardly to her hands. "Yeah," the blonde muttered. "Sorry about that. My dad kind of-"

She was cut off by someone slamming on their door. Grace nimbly jumped off the bed and lightly tugged her friend along, grinning at her. "Don't worry," she sang, "I believe everything happens for a reason. Maybe you're not supposed to tell me right now. I'm ok with that," Grace grinned, and then jovially yanked open the door. A tall, lanky youth was leaning in it, shadowed by a slightly shorter boy with dyed grey hair. "Why, hello, ladies, and welcome to Frost," the boy in the frame purred, before he saw who it was he was addressing. "Oh! Do my eyes deceive me, or that Miss Grace? I do believe I owe you a tarot reading."

Grace smiled broadly. "Tarrow! Whatcha up to? This is my roommate, by the way: Izzy. She's a violinist," Grace said, as Tarrow extended one slim hand towards the other girl. He nodded in his blue robes and commented, "My shadow happens to be named Tommi, by the way. Do not be deceived by his shy demeanor. The boy is a devil."

Tommi, for his part, rolled his golden brown eyes, shaking his dyed grey hair. Grace jovially held out her hand so he could shake it while she asked, "So whatcha doing here?" Tommi opened his mouth to answer, but Tarrow interjected, "Well, my dear, today is the first day of your orientation, so-to-speak. We must away. Shortly begins an assembly for my lovely froshie friends," he purred, and then glided away. Tommi lingered in front of the room, watching the way Izzy drew her hand through her hair. "You know," he told her, "Your hair reminds me of a sunset." She looked up, surprised, but he had drifted off down the hallway, following Tarrow.

Grace looked left and right. All down the extensive hallway, chattering girls were being herded outside by upperclassmen. Someone was talking the loudest and the fastest by her, a small kid with spiked hair and a Vulpix was continuously introducing himself to the people passing him. Beside him, a tall girl who looked mostly bored made sure he didn't kill anyone with his quick energy.

Grace and Izzy sort of wandered out of the hallway, following the crowd. Turn after turn after turn led them out onto an expanse of lawn, filled with folding chairs and picnic blankets. In front of all of that stood a line of upperclassmen, watching the freshmen and talking amongst themselves, waiting for some announcement or another. Grace looked up to the grey sky and hoped it wouldn't rain. Tabbot hated being in the rain without her.

She and Izzy chose a green checked blanket to sit on, comfortable in the unseasonable warmth. Tobi found them and settled in, along with Davion and his roommate, Mika. Davion just seemed to assume he and Grace were friends, and he plopped right down next to her. She laughed and let him. She didn't find his stunning good looks intimidating. Plus, from what she could see, he had no real money. And that was sort of a thing for her: a man had to be able to support himself.

The tawny-eyed boy turned out to be the speaker the upperclassmen were waiting for. They sat down as soon as he walked on stage. "As you may have noticed," he said, in a voice like rolling thunder, "Your dear pokemon are missing." There was an answering murmur from the freshmen, which made the gathered upperclassmen smile.

"Your head also probably hurts quite a bit," Tommi added, and there was a wave of understanding groans. "For that, you can thank my crack team of stealth attackers," he said, and the upperclassmen grinned. "Thus begins the first day of freshmen orientation," he purred. "While you were taking that nice nap, we have taken your pokemon and hidden them in all sorts of places around campus. You have two days to find them."

Over the sudden muttering, Tommi purred, in a voice like the stars falling, "On behalf of all the upperclassmen, let me just say: welcome to Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented. Your first test starts now."

X-------X

**A.N: This chapter is dedicated to the amazing Absh, who is balancing being awesome while preforming in a play. Break a leg, you. I hope it goes well. :)**

**I abused the trust of the following people:**

**Kratch Hayes Farcett: Mysterious Panther**  
**Yuki Koori: Kei's-Girl**  
**Will Rio: fgtfgtr**  
**Jarel Wayne: Bearded Zeus**  
**Orson Leander Raymond: tinfoilman4**

**Thank you very much for letting me have so much fun. And, for the record, I never ever mind you sending me extra information. It makes my life a heck of a lot easier. Also, thank you for the grammar note - it's good to always improve :)**

**I hope you liked this week's experiment.**

**Take care.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**A.N: If you came across this recently and thought to yourself, "gosh I'm fantastic, now that I think about it, and golly be if I'd love to be in this story. But _How?_" Well, my confused compadre, simply fill out the form in the first chapter and we'll slide you right in with all the action :)**

X-X**  
**

It dripped like sweet poison into his mind, pooling in thick black swirls. Slowly, it stretched in one suffocating blanket across him until everything was awash in the pull of leather wings.

What was this? He could hear his breathing in his ears, the resounding rasp endlessly repeating, but that was all. Everything inside of his head slipped soundlessly into a horrible sticky slowness. He blinked and watched his world go black and thought of nothing but an empty dawn. Something hurt, he knew, something was a dull thud writhing under layers of numb. He closed his eyes and tried to figure out what was making everything twist in slow motion.

Little drops of icy realization froze him back into reality. He looked down to his hands and then up to the stage. Words, he knew, silence still pounding in his ears like a vicious drumbeat, words were causing that hurt. Words were not supposed to sting like that. He paused and tried to figure out just why he felt pain. Had he fallen down without realizing it? Had he cut himself? Had he – wait.

Why did his heart tremble like that? Like some caged beast? Like lurking death? Why did his breath sound so shaky in his ears? He was fine. He was fine. He was fine.

He looked up to the world around him and instantly plunged back into hearing. All around him was coiling movement like a snake headed to nowhere. Everything echoed with a thick angry undertone and sticky worried cries. He stood in the middle of it and took a step towards destruction with the rest of them.

"Nathan," someone said, and he snapped back to reality. He turned expectantly and found his roommate behind him, frowning and tucking his hair behind his ear. Will peered at the crowd around them and shook his head. "Well," he stated, blasé, "I don't know about you, but I think I'm going to wait until after everyone's done having an episode to start looking for my little darlings."

Nathan smiled a little and shook himself, but didn't say anything. Will didn't mind. He figured his roommate was just like that – the guy didn't say much. That was fine. Will could talk enough for the both of them. "I mean, this is pretty much what I expected," will continued, shrugging, "It's pretty normal for the first day of school. We get here, do some recreational hiking, get taken down by ninjas in the middle of the forest, get our pokemon stolen. After this comes the sacrificial Pidgey slaughter. A little bit of bloodletting. And _then_ the hazing starts," he said, in such a bland tone that Nathan had to laugh. Will raised one eyebrow aristocratically. "What? You think this sort of thing is funny? Do you hate traditions or something?" he asked, and Nathan shook his head, playing along. Will was joking, of course. He just couldn't stand that horrible cruel look on Nathan's face, like a swirling demon had taken over.

"I mean," Will yawned, and abruptly sat down, "I'm a man of action. I do what needs to be done. Which is why," he paused and flopped onto his back, "I'm taking a nap." Nathan laughed and looked down at him curiously, wondering if Will's idea was strictly safe. People milled around helplessly. Will would be just another obstruction they would step on, but the brunette seemed unconcerned. Nathan grinned and sat down next to him, keeping watch for encroaching feet. Around him the storm swirled, and he pulled at the grass restlessly. Will, despite having his arms over his eyes, informed him, "The white parts of grass are eatable," in a conspiratorial tone. Nathan obligingly chomped down on the first white section he could find and had to admit he couldn't see any particular pleasure in the experience. It tasted mostly like lawn clippings.

"Of course," Will added thoughtfully, blindly reaching for his own grass, "That doesn't mean you should eat it," he admitted, and then stuck some in his mouth. Nathan smiled and watched the crowd slowly disperse in its wild nature. "Aren't you worried?" he asked quietly, unsure if that was a socially acceptable question. Will frowned and put his arm across his eyes again.

"Of course," he said, "But I believe the school wouldn't let the upperclassmen harm the pokemon. I don't think there's any real danger, because harming someone else's loved one is in fact, my dear quiet friend, illegal," he explained. He paused and then continued, "But if anything happened to Lucario, I swear to god I will personally destroy whoever it was that did it," he added, in such a sweet tone that Nathan felt horror slither down his spine. The novelist looked down to his hands again, trailing his slate blue eyes across the lines in his palms. He was wondering at the bones underneath, about the darkness that spiraled under his skin, and he was thinking about the possibility of revenge. Oh, he thought, what saccharine sorrow is humanity. We all turn to violence. We all turn to rage.

He folded his fingers into a fist and watched in abject fascination as his muscles pushed against his skin, grinning with subtle cruelty. Oh yes. We all turn to rage.

xxxxxxx

The words sank in and Yuki's warm brown eyes filled with crystal tears. She shook her head angrily and dug her fingernails into her palm, trying to stay calm. She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath, counting backwards from ten in her head. She had to stay strong. She had to be happy and good and caring. She had to.

She opened her eyes and found Kratch swearing absently, as if the girl wasn't sure that words were coming out of her mouth. Yuki slapped on a smile as quickly as possible. She had to be upbeat. She had to be bright and happy and nice. She stretched out one slim hand to her new friend and grinned brightly. "Don't worry!" she sang, "I'm sure, like, everything will be fine. I mean, uh," she didn't know what else to say so she gave up and started humming scales under her breath. She felt something hit her hand, and when she looked up she knew why. The skies looked ready to break.

"Kratch?" she called uncertainly, "Um, hey. Let's go check inside! I bet they're inside! It's going to rain, I think? So let's go inside," she babbled, tugging the resisting girl. Kratch shook her black hair and chewed her lip, but at least she had stopped swearing. "Um, Kratch? I mean, like, you'll catch a cold," Yuki tried, but her friend wasn't moving.

"I like the rain," the taller one said, her voice hoarse and absent. Yuki shook her head and started singing quietly again. If Kratch was staying out here and catching her death, then the least Yuki could do was sit beside her. And it wasn't too cold up in the mountains. Only forty degrees or something. Yuki rolled her eyes and called her own bluff, shivering and rubbing her arms to get the warmth back into them. "Come on," she tried again, quietly, "I can't be Kruti without you," she admitted, and the faintest shimmer of a smile crossed Kratch's lips, but she still wouldn't move.

"Alright then," Yuki said decisively, "We'll just stay out in the rain then." If that's what it took to make someone happy, then that was what she would do. She hated cold rain, but she looked up at the slowly falling sky and purred, "Gosh I love the weather when it's like this! Yep!" when really she just liked helping a friend.

Yuki was that kind of person: always helping. She had to be. She had to be.

xxxxxxx

Grace bit her lip and tugged her friend awkwardly. Above her, the sky echoed with its deep-shudder voice. It wasn't the best time to be out in an open field. She tugged Izzy carefully, as if she was handling a small pet. "Um," she said quietly, "Are you ok?"

Izzy shook her head and suddenly something seemed to click into place. Her eyes widened and she lunged for their dorm room, tugging Grace along. The brunette did not complain, trotting easily alongside her friend as if she took panicked sprints every day. Izzy yanked open the door and flew inside, instantly going to her suitcase and tearing it apart with such ferocious purpose that Grace took a step back.

"Um," the shorter one said, running her hand through her hair, "I thought we checked the suitcases before?" she was unsure of what to do. Izzy was shaking her head frantically. "No, no, no, you don't get it! It's, it's, it's a present from my dad before he, before he, before he…" she trailed off and glanced up. Grace knit her brows in concern. Izzy looked ready to cry. The blonde jerked her head back to her frenzied searching, continuing, "It looked like a pokeball. I-I-I- I don't know. I have to have it. I have to have it. It's all I have left…" slowly her voice died into a frightened whisper. She sank onto her bed and put her head into her hands, pressing against her temples. Her mind was in chaos, and it flickered in and out of focus. She was aware there was movement around her, but she just shut her eyes and wished she could go back in time and choose another school.

Grace sat down next to her and gently pulled her hand away, pushing into her palm a small round thing. Izzy blearily opened one eye, and a slow smile stretched across her face. "You found it," she said quietly, with such relief and thanks that Grace smiled back, leaning against her friend.

"So by the way," Grace said conspiratorially, "I touch people," she informed the blonde, who laughed. "Should I be afraid?" Izzy asked, turning the purple trinket around in her palm. It felt so much better having it there with her. It was just a carved, wooden thing, but something so little meant a lot to her. She felt Grace shake her head and reply, "Not like that. I just like human contact is all," she admitted, singing a little. Izzy smiled. Grace wasn't exactly musically accurate, but the blonde still loved the way the short one was always singing little bits of whatever came out of her mouth.

Grace paused and seemed to consider something. "Now then," she stated, "Let's go punch whoever thought this was a good idea." Izzy grinned and asked, "Will it be in their face?" in such a hopeful tone that Grace laughed and pulled her up off the bed, linking their fingers. "Oh yes," she assured the blonde, "There will most certainly be face punching tonight."

xxxxxxx

Mika's jaw dropped open and his eyebrows crunched together in solid fury. Did they even know who they just toyed with? He could kill them in an instant with his death glare alone. He could take them down from forty miles away with only a pea-shooter and one hand tied behind his back. He frowned and stared angrily at the ground. He heard Grace trying to calm Izzy, but didn't care. Oh no. He was a man of action, not words. He looked purposefully at Davion, trying to send him guy signals. Let the girls freak out while the boys saved the day. It sounded like a plan to him.

Davion wouldn't meet his eyes. He just stood up slowly and sort of swayed in the wind, stunned. His oak eyes were entirely unfocused on the horizon. Without any sign of cognition, he lurched towards a random building, leaving Mika all by himself. The weapon master frowned deeper and pretended like he hadn't just been scorned. He whipped his deep blue eyes towards the girls. If nothing else, he figured he could get attention from the girls. Not that he needed it, or anything. He just liked having someone to boss around.

"Well," he said, making his voice deeper and, in his opinion, sultry, "I'm sure we can figure something out," he purred, but neither of them listened. Izzy was holding Grace's hand with such desperation that Mika could see little half-moons of blood from where her fingernails were digging into her friend's skin. Grace didn't seem too perturbed. She just snuck a casual glance at her hand and then went back to comforting the sunset blonde. For her part, the green-eyed vixen was spitting out half-finished words like fire.

Mika frowned deeper and then stalked away angrily. Girls were too stupid, was all. He figured those two probably talked constantly about shoes and purses and…he had to pause and think about other things that were girly. Makeup was girly, right? If it had been armor, that he could understand. The different kinds of metal and their effects on the wearer was something serious. He stormed aimlessly across the campus, bent on finding his pokemon all by himself. And besides, if girls were so bad at driving, they were also probably terrible at directions. So it wouldn't help. They'd just get him lost.

Now then. Where was he?

xxxxxxx

Grace tugged Izzy along hallways and dormrooms and large expanses of lawn. She was on a mission. The blonde just smiled sort of sadly and let herself be pulled along, like the tug of the ocean on her body. From the twists and turns Grace was taking, Izzy could guess they were starting their search at the center of the school grounds.

White marble led up to a large fountain, where dozens of upperclassmen were hanging around, chatting. One tiny one was standing on the edge of the fountain, holding his Vulpix and spewing words at high velocity. It was towards this defenseless creature that Grace was headed, like an arrow towards destruction. She yanked him off the marble and tugged him along after her until they were away from everyone else and under a covered hallway. Izzy shivered. While it wasn't in the rain, it was still open to the elements like a lot of the hallways at Frost, but only the freshmen seemed to notice the bitter chill.

"Now then," Grace said, while he struggled against her, "Tell me where Tabbot is or I will kill you," she stated, and despite her joking tone her hand clenched possessively at his arm. From the shadows a tall girl stepped forth, yawning.

"Don't hurt him, or something," she said, sounding so bored that Grace actually dropped the smaller boy's arm. The dark girl rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her chest, peering at the freshmen. Seeing Rhyme unhurt, she shrugged. "My job here is done," she announced, and started to melt away. Rhyme instantly bounced over to her and pulled her back. She sighed and tried not to step on him. He was always underfoot.

"Oh! Is Tabbot your pokemon? What kind of pokemon? I have a Vulpix. She's very pretty, isn't she? Say hi, Lili!" he chirped, evidentially unfazed. In the arm she hadn't been manhandling, he balanced the little creature, which yapped shyly and then hid its head against his body, shivering slightly.

"Tabbot's an Absol," Grace explained, and Izzy sent her a concerned look. Usually Grace seemed pretty upbeat, but something clicked in her throat just then, and it sounded an awful lot like sticky guilt. "And I am failing him horribly," Grace added, confirming Izzy's suspicions. Grace chewed her lip angrily, rubbing the place in her hand where Izzy had accidentally cut her.

"Well," Rhyme said brightly, "We better get to work!"

xxxxxxxx

The reels clicked and turned into sepia slowly, like a fading photograph. The crowd slowed down and their angry voices were replaced by a swell in music, by a single violin joined gradually by the rest of the orchestra, all just playing one terrifying, suspenseful note like shivers sliding down spines.

Tobi twitched his nose and blinked, refocusing. Someone was standing in front of him, lurking. He had his arms across his chest, looming in his black clothes. Tobi sighed and looked up to his roommate's eyes. "Hey, Sage," he said wearily. He attracted weird people, evidentially. The much taller boy shifted his black eyes away, flipping his long coal hair irritably. Tobi nodded as if the other boy had responded and then tried to figure out an escape. He'd seen Grace leave with Izzy, maybe he should follow them…?

"Come with me," Sage said, and it sounded more like an order than a request. He flipped his scrawny skin and slouched away. Tobi sighed and sent a look in the direction where his new friends had slipped away, and then followed the tall cloud of anger. He wondered where he learned to be a good person, and instantly his brain clicked through his mental files until he found all sorts of movies his memories had made. They whirred on repeat while he trailed along absently, their soundtracks merging like lost love.

Sage turned out to have been stalking Tommi. The shorter boy flipped his sandy brown eyes up towards the menacing creature, surprised. He was lounging with his friends onstage, evidentially unconcerned with the current chaos. They silenced as the imposing boy stalked onto their safe little island, picked up Tommi by his shirt and yanked him to his feet.

"Uh," Tobi said, "Sorry about that. Sage, put the nice boy down," he said, grimacing. Tommi looked particularly affronted, slipping like wet ink back down onto his feet. Sage frowned and looked at his hands, wondering why he couldn't hold down the upperclassman. Tommi looked at Tobi expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

"Sorry?" Tobi guessed, seeing as Sage was just standing there, looking imposing. Tommi frowned. "What's up? You guys can't be stuck already, can you?" he asked, his eyebrows knit together. Tobi felt movement behind his shoulder and found two very large boys behind him, both of them looking ready to kill. Tommi seemed to acknowledge these people, and held up his hands.

"Ya know," one said, smiling despite his undertone of sharpened steel, "I am generally a man that is very easy to git along with. I see this as a breach of trust, as I have not made acquaintances with you as of yet and therefore am uncomfortable lending out my pokemon in such a way, if you so please." The figure to the left of him skulked dangerously, glaring at the upperclassmen. One stood up serenely, his blue capes twisting in the wind.

"If you'll allow me, Tommi?" He purred, steepling his fingers. Tommi very visibly rolled his eyes, but stepped back. The wizard opened his arms and proclaimed jovially, "My dear people! Do not hate the oppressor, hate the oppression. For you see, Tommi is following tradition and tradition alone. When we were but meager freshmen such as yourself, our pokemon were taken from us as well. Of course, when we were knocked out it was with several carcinogens that were questionable in legality, but we survived. Think! With all the exploring you will do, you will cover the campus entirely. Be assured that you'll never look like a lost lamb, no, my dear people, instead you will be freshman _gods._ Finding your classes will be but a happy chore when you are through with this. And, of course, for a small fee, I have been known to help. Just think: you need to find your precious pokemon? The tarot knows! You can't quite find a shirt that comes in your size? The tarot knows. Can't get the lawn gnomes out of your –?"

"Don't listen to him," Tommi said, smiling. He yawned and stretched, letting the rain fall on his soft grey hair. He hadn't meant to hurt the poor froshies, but his version of initiation was actually tamer than any other year. The year above him had to brave random spike pits. The year before that, legions of angry Beedrills. "If you need help from the upperclassmen, it's free. We'll show you around, if you want. Of course, we can't just tell you where everything's hidden, but we'll do the best we can," he assured them, and watched their muscles relax slightly.

"The best they can do is not half as good as the tarot," Tarrow interjected, and the upperclassmen groaned. Several slipped off the stage and attached themselves to freshmen, leading the poor little creatures around as if they were blind. Tarrow nodded awkwardly to the frozen tall creature, and then loped away to find another victim.

"Ok," Sage said calmly, and then slipped away. Tobi rolled his eyes and set off for the dorms. Maybe he could find someone normal and spend the day with them, if anyone normal actually existed. At this point, he was unsure. He looked up to the rain and the cameras started rolling again.

One wide sweep of the now-empty green, the rain tumbling in restless repetition, and then a slow fade to impenetrable darkness.

X-X

**A.N: As I'm sure you'll have noticed, I love it when people are more than they appear on the surface. I think we all are complex beings with sophisticated inner structures, which is why some characters seem completely different. They're not. They're just under a lot of stress at this time, and it changes them so you can see other little bits about them.  
**

**This chapter is dedicated to poor SoujaGurl, who gave me Tommi and expected me to use him wisely. He's not evil, just by the way, even though it sometimes appears that way. Appearances are deceiving :)**

**Also the views I seem to express through the minds of the characters are not necessarily mine. For instance, as a girl, I think we do pretty well at driving, thank you very much :) **

**(The only) Character that made a (fantastic) debut:**

**Sage: ultima-owner**

**Also I would like to say how much I thank the people who review my work. I like knowing you don't hate it and that you forgive me for messing around with your characters the way I do :)**

**Thank you again for reading and submitting your characters. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**

**Take care.  
**


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N: As per usual, you are still allowed to submit a character. Just follow the prompt in the first chapter. And, although I hate asking for things, I would love a teacher character, even if you already have one. I look forwards to your submissions :)**

**X-X**

She peered at the world around her, eyes bright with some sick excitement like she was pursuing a favorite pastime. Her dark waterfall of hair was wrenched back into a high ponytail, and her body twisted with a certain efficiency of motion that made him inexplicably worried. She crouched like some great black beast and sprang, a fluid river of coal. Her deft fingers caught the ledge in front of her with such horrifying certainty that he shifted uncomfortably. She flexed and dragged herself upwards, her bare feet balancing against the wall as she reached into her back pocket and removed a small screwdriver. With terrifying competence, she removed the four screws that held the vent to the wall, passing down the metal to the tall girl underneath her as if she wasn't six feet in the air. She tensed and pulled herself up until she could see inside the air shaft, and then sighed.

"I can't see anything," she admitted, and Rhyme bit his lip, clutching his Vulpix uncertainly. There was something wrong with the way she could do that.

"I don't know if they would put them in a vent," he admitted, while Caen flipped the metal around in her hands with bland interest. Something intrigued her about the girl over her head, the one who was now dragging herself into the tiny duct. The air filter was heavier than she had expected, and yet the little one dressed in black had handled it as if it was nothing. Izzy frowned and watched her friend's progression, her hands shoved into her pockets. Grace still had a bright smile on her face, but her eyes were lit with a grey sort of pleasure. It made the blonde uncomfortable, the way her roommate slid into the metal canal with such proficiency. It wasn't natural: it was trained. Grace moved with control, with purpose, with sick delight.

Rhyme smiled awkwardly and shifted Lilian higher up his chest. "Grace?" he called after her. He couldn't see her anymore. She'd disappeared into the mouth of the great metal beast.

"I'll be back in time for dinner," came her faint promise, "Go on without me," she added, her words barely reaching his ears. Izzy deflated visibly. She didn't like being left without her roommate, who was still friendly despite the breakdown she'd witnessed. The blonde bit her lip and rocked back and forth on her heels.

"So," she said awkwardly, "Um. Let's search this building, maybe," she offered, and Rhyme nodded happily, shifting Lilian up onto his shoulder so he could take her hand while balancing the copper thing.

"It's ok," he promised her, "She'll be fine, mine, line, spine," he babbled, even though his black eyes watched the place where a small girl had disappeared into. He peered at it for an instant and then figured out what had bothered him so much previously. Grace had slunk into the duct without making a single noise. It wasn't normal. There was something wrong with that, with how practiced her motions were.

He pulled Izzy away, Caen following slowly. The tall girl wasn't actually sure why she was letting herself be led around. She could be training or something. She threw a look over her shoulder and sighed before shoving her hands into her pockets and lurching forwards. Rhyme was chattering happily in the silence as Izzy moved from one room to another, promising they would find the pokemon if they just believed. Izzy was practically shaking with impatience. It had been two days since she'd woken up to find her Shiftry missing. The dinner Grace had mentioned was the signal to her time running out. They had three hours to search every place they hadn't already scoured. Izzy sighed and opened the door to yet another classroom, knowing there really wasn't that many places they hadn't checked. Her nerves were starting to fray into wisps of intolerance. Rhyme and Caen had been nothing except helpful, but at this point she wanted to shake them until they just told her where they had hidden her best friends. Inside of her head, a violin sang with sorrow, just a tremble of ascending notes like helpless hope.

Rhyme helped her as best as he was allowed to. He would set Lili down and look under things, his bright eyes peering into darkness. He watched the girl with peach hair move like a tensed bow, and took pictures in his mind. The dust in the air caught the sun and turned her hair to gold, and the camera inside of his head reconfigured. She grew two inches and instead of a desk there were weeping willows. She would be wearing a gold swimsuit and pearls across her forehead. Wrapped around her arm like chains would be a slim Arbok, its skin reflecting the sun like her hair.

He blinked and returned to reality as she pawed through a bookcase desperately, shifting novels to the side with bland hopelessness. She sighed and dropped her hands to her side, shaking her head. "Whatever. We've searched this building before. Come on, maybe we didn't search the building next to this one," she said wearily, trudging back into the hallway. Rhyme twisted his head to see where she was going. "What, A-C?" he asked, and Izzy sent him a look. "I have no idea," she replied sadly. Rhyme grinned. "It's really easy once you get used to it, I promise. Think about it as seven circles, not just a ton of buildings. You saw the fountain in the center. There are seven small buildings around that, and then seven bigger buildings around that, and then seven even bigger buildings around that and then seven around _that_ and so on until the last circle where there are only four," he explained, trying to draw it in the air. "The first letter is for what the building holds – so A is art, yep art. Then the second letter is for which building within the circle it is, so A-C is in the art circle, two away from A-A," he stated, and Izzy just sent him a look that was more confused than when he had started talking. He took a picture of the emotion and readdressed it to a perfect couple walking right into their confrontation scene. Yes, it would be perfect, the girl staring at her partner with that same disbelief…

"Like a snowflake," Caen said suddenly, "With seven arms or something," she muttered, and the other two shot her a look, surprised. She darted her eyes away guiltily, as if she hadn't meant to talk. "Whatever," she murmured, "Let's just go," she mumbled, and Rhyme led Izzy down the short hallway to the exit.

Caen slid after them, but threw one look at the open air vent, and a slow, syrupy smile spread in glistening white malice across her face.

x-x

Sage slouched along, trying not to step on anyone. He was aware that his roommate was following him, but he didn't slow down or stop. He had worked his way through forty buildings. Six to go. He had two hours. There wasn't enough time to be careful. He grunted, annoyed. Who thought it would be a good idea to space the buildings so far apart? Clearly there was something wrong with them. Maybe they had no understanding of architecture. That was possible. Maybe they had been dropped on their head as a child. Also possible. Maybe…

"Hey," Tobi panted, "Wanna slow down or something? Some of us don't have freakishly long legs," he muttered angrily, and Sage froze, whipping around. He glared at his roommate, who had his hands on his knees and was gasping for breath. The kid wasn't so bad, he guessed, but he was slow. It bothered Sage. People should accommodate him, not the other way around.

Tobi hated his life. He wasn't exactly out of shape, but he'd been running for the past three hours and it was starting to get old. The nearest building was about two football fields away, and he was giving up hope. He mostly hated that Sage didn't seem winded in the slightest, just annoyed. It certainly wasn't Tobi's fault he was average height, or that Sage was a man-boy. What was with that? He drew a shaky breath and ran his hands through his hair, his heart slowly returning to a normal pace.

"Done?" Sage asked, his dark eyes staring into Tobi's light blue ones. Tobi shook his head and stood to his full height, taking in air like it was a precious commodity. Sage looked him up and down, seemed to decide he was fine, and set off at his mind-numbing pace again, striding across the land like a black cloud.

"You know something," Tobi said, watching the mass of black glide effortlessly across the green field, "You really suck," he admitted, before pulling his complaining body after the dark boy.

x-x

He fell on top of his roommate, letting out a note of surprise that wasn't as manly as he hoped. He growled to hide it and jumped up, exploding in anger. "Can I please ask you," he hissed, "What you are doing in the middle of the floor?"

Davion looked up wearily from his position, regarding the angry Mika with a perfect blandness that made the knight particularly annoyed. "Looking," the model replied, his sugar voice hoarse with exhaustion. He then pulled himself along the floor using only his hands, his oak eyes darting around with muted anxiousness. Mika frowned and considered what doing the right thing would get him. Maybe an ally or something. Not that this kid could do anything except look good, which was disgusting.

He rolled his cobalt eyes and crouched down so he could see Davion better. The model's face was chillingly pale, and his eyes were dull. Mika, being the scientist he was, poked him. "Hey," he said, "Get up," he commanded awkwardly. "Seriously, dudes don't chill on the floor," he muttered, but Davion just shot a look at his own legs. Mika followed his gaze and knew automatically that the right leg way broken. "Oh Arceus," Mika groaned, "What happened?"

Davion pulled himself forwards a little bit more. "Looking," he replied sadly. Mika rolled his eyes and darted a look to both sides. "Ok, don't tell anyone or anything, but I'm going to help you, you big girl," he muttered, and then swung the weak blonde over his shoulder. Davion protested mildly, murmuring, "Ginji…" with such distressed vulnerability that Mika wanted to puke. He trudged ahead, knowing where the nurse was located. It was on the outside ring of buildings, the first place he'd come across, mostly by accident. Mika reconsidered this thought. No, he didn't make accidents. The nurse was just the most strategically acceptable starting place was all. And the nice lady behind the desk had given him a cookie. There was nothing wrong with a cookie now and then.

"Did I tell you," Mika snorted, "You're the most pathetic excuse for a man that I've ever seen," he growled, as the limp body tried meekly to get down. Mika felt the push of muscles against his shoulder and bit his lip. On a good day, when he wasn't dying or whatever, Davion would be a serious competitor. Actually, the fact he'd apparently neither slept, drank, or ate in the last two days and was crawling along on a broken leg was probably a sign of something dangerous.

Mika had to rethink this a moment later when the pathetic little thing opened his mouth and mewed, "Jared…" in a voice like suffocating snow.

x-x

Will perched on the edge of the roof, his lean body flexing in preparation of the jump that awaited him. Behind him, looking slightly green, Nathan balled his hands into fists. "It's only a floor," Will stated, tucking his hair behind his ear. "What's the worst that happens? Death? Don't worry about that," he noted, "I had a chat with Death the other day – we're old friends – and said, 'hello, here are some pictures of you cheating on your wife with Aphrodite, you don't want that getting out, do you?' And he said, 'Oh god what do you want?' so I told him, I said, 'Look, me and my friend get free passes. I'm not asking for the world. Just a longer than average life,' and he agreed. It was very nice. After that we had some tea. Chamomile," Will promised, looking down over the edge to the ground ten feet away.

Nathan's eyes were wide and unhappy. "You can die from a fall of five feet," he stuttered. He was in the middle of the roof, clutching to the door they'd exited from. It had locked behind them, leaving them no way to get down. Will hadn't appeared concerned at all, but was instead sort of delighted at the idea of throwing his body to the ground below. Nathan thought he was insane. There were just some things that were not right in the world. Falling was one of them.

"Oh don't worry about it," Will yawned, "Did I tell you? I secretly have wings. You can't see them because they are invisible. Oh, and super strong. I could totally catch you if anything went wrong. I'm fast. Like a ninja, but better. Because of the wings. They help my rep, you understand," he joked, and then sprang like a slick of oil, his body bending in a perfect arc, one quick mark against the grey sky. He hit the ground with a muted thump, rolling into it. He stood up and shook himself. He'd jumped from higher before. It wasn't so bad. He called up to his friend that he was fine, but no response greeted him.

Nathan just stood there in his abeyance and considered fainting. He slowly released the door and picked his way across the roof until he got to the edge. He felt his stomach drop and the world spin.

Oh vertigo, he thought, you silly thing you.

x-x

Orson tumbled, jolly, across the lawn, Jarel a shadow behind. "Now then," he chuckled, "Y'all will be noticing that we have searched all but four buildings, if you don't mind the observation," he said, and the tall figure in blue to the left of him nodded sagely. "Indeed we seem to have covered most of the grounds. Might I add that it would have been much faster had either of you accepted the Tarot option?" Tarrow said, adjusting the fingerless glove on his right hand. The silver gauntlet on his left wrist shone dully, reflecting his ridiculous visage back at him. "Although," he added, "I must admit I had not anticipated such a rapid pace. It does appear that this year's freshmen are more desperate than my year. I find that both amusing and ironic. And yes, I am using the correct meaning of 'ironic,' before you ask," he noted.

"Irony: characterized by often poignant difference or incongruity between what is expected and what actually is," Jarel said suddenly, his voice like thunder into the sky. The other two sent him a look. Tarrow appeared particularly affronted while Orson looked extremely pleased. "Say," the large boy commented, "Can you do that with everything?"

Jarel looked away and muttered, "Everything: all that exists. The opposite of nothing," sort of shyly, like the knowledge in his head made him guilty. Orson had a huge smile on his face. Tarrow, hating being shown up, rolled his eyes. "Oh please. I'm sure there are a few that you are not familiar with. Let's see…'peruse,'" he said, his eyes glistening. No one ever got that one right.

"Peruse: examine or consider with attention and in detail. Usually used incorrectly," Jarel stated, looking down to his hands awkwardly. Tarrow's mouth dropped open. "Well," he muttered, "Look who's so smart here." He played with his glove and then brightened. "Of course," he noted, "The Tarot can also teach word definitions, just for a small fee. Just a little out of wallet, and you will never need a dictionary again," he purred, and Orson shot him a look. "I don't see why," the Southerner mused, "Since Jarel seems to have the entire dictionary right done memorized anyways. I just need to ask him if'n I'm unsure," he admitted.

"He could be incorrect, for all you know," Tarrow pleaded, "How would you know? Just think: ask the Tarot if he is correct and you will get a one-hundred percent accurate reading. Unsure of anything in life? For a small fee and a simple procedure, you can be certain again."

"Tarot: A form of 'cartomancy,' or divination based on cards and myth. Has history in the occult," Jarel murmured, as inside his head swirled with wet coal. He flexed his hands again, watching the way the muscles moved. He hadn't studied or anything. He just knew things. And besides, there was that one character he had to do research for…

He looked back up again as they made it to their next building while all around him were rivers of running ink, staining the white pages in his head with their awful omnipresent upset.

x-x

Over the intercoms, like violent distrust, a voice sang out, resounding in her ears like broken hearts. The voice was rose-petal sweet, calling, "All students, please report to the cafeteria. Freshmen, your time for searching is now over. Upperclassmen, please sweep the school for any lingering underclassmen. All students, please report to the cafeteria. Thank you," her voice made Yuki twist her head strangely. The short black-haired one was clutching a tissue possessively as if it was her last chance to find her loved ones. She had caught an awful cold from staying out in the rain with Kratch, but her taller friend had been so grateful that it didn't really matter. She sneezed and turned until she was facing the large building that was their cafeteria. Kratch was already lightly jogging across the lawn. They weren't too far. Yuki suppressed a sigh, dragging her body along. She really wanted to help, but every part of her body wanted to drop to the ground and take a nice nap. Her friend shot her a look over her shoulder, and the shorter one offered a bright smile, as if she wasn't in pain.

She coughed into her tissue and wished she'd chosen a school with a warmer climate. Or at least not as much rain. She coughed again and shivered, padding restlessly to the behemoth building. It was made mostly out of glass, so she could see the tables arranged over the tasteful blue, silver, and white tiles. The tables were arranged in the same seven circles as the campus was, each circle a different color of the rainbow. In the center, someone had set up a large circular stage. Upperclassmen were already perched up on the little island, talking among themselves with a sort of mild boredom. Yuki was staring so hard at the building that she almost walked into it. She pulled a face and found the large, carved wooden doors, yanking one open sheepishly.

Kratch and the other freshmen sat around the orange and yellow tables, not wanting to be too close or too far. The cafeteria seemed sort of lonely and empty, like a beast waiting to be fed. Yuki slid into a seat right next to her new friend, who was holding a conversation with a new boy she'd met. Yuki coughed into her hand as the speakers repeated the announcement, more and more students crawling their way towards the glass building. She twisted her head again and stared at the nearest speaker. Kratch saw her sudden lack of movement and questioned it. The shorter girl shook her head, mumbling, "She sounds like a singer, is all, but…" she trailed off as Tommi stood up at the podium, clearing his throat. She watched the way his hair fell like ashes and thought of summer.

"So, my dear freshmen, we'll wait for about fifteen minutes while my super-awesome team of ninja upperclassmen sweep the school for any lost strays," he promised, and then sat back down. Whatever Yuki was about to say was lost in the chatter that followed. She knew it had been important, but it slipped from her mind like winding silk.

x-x

Fifteen minutes later, Izzy shifted uncomfortably. While Mika and a few other people had sat with her, she still felt alone. Davion was on crutches and stared with horrible sorrow at his cast like it was the end of the world. She bit her lip and rubbed the feather in her hair. As she did, Grace slid into the seat next to her, completely nonchalant. "Did you know," the little one asked, "That the dean's office is the only air duct too small to crawl through?"

Izzy sent her a surprised look as her friend idly picked dust off her black shirt. The blonde's mouth opened, but before she could question the brunette, Tommi stepped up again. "Well, some two days it's been, huh? I would like to thank my crack team of pirate-ninja crossbreeds for coming out so early in the year _just_ to set this up," he started to clap, and was joined by weak applause. He grinned, "The rest of us upperclassmen don't arrive for another week," he promised, "So be thankful they came out all this way to help you," he reported, and there was a slightly louder reaction.

"So, who here found their pokemon?" Tommi said jovially. He looked to the left and right, as if waiting for an answer. When none came, he smiled brilliantly. "Well, that's unfortunate. Ultimately, there is a price to pay with that," he shook his head like there was nothing to be done about it. "My dear freshmen, we do not like it here at Frost when people fail tests. There are repercussions for everything," he promised.

From the middle of the freshmen crowd, someone shouted out, "Just tell us what it is!" and everyone laughed. Tommi grinned and held up a clipboard, thick with papers. "It's very simple. You're going to need to battle to get your little darlings back. Nothing impossible," he noted, as murmuring began to spread throughout the room. "You'll be paired up with someone. If you win, you get your pokemon back. Of course," he paused and leaned onto the podium, "There's a twist."

The room went silent, vibrating with anticipation. His voice dropped to the sound of falling leaves. "You will be battling against your own pokemon," he murmured, sealing their fate with a single phrase.

**X-X**

**A.N: This chapter was supposed to be realeased yesterday, in time for Absh's birthday, but my internet and I got into a fight and it sulked in a corner for about thirty hours. So, belatedly, happy birthday to you, Absh, enjoy being two years older than I.**

**I actually am not sure how I feel about this chapter. I think I might hate it. Feel free to join my hate, or prehaps just guess what's going on in a nice review, perhaps? Like, what's up with Grace? What's up with all the sevens? Why do you always end it on a cliffhanger? :)**

**Thank you again, people who review consistantly, seeing as you keep me writing. You know who you are. You know that I love you. Keep being fantastic. **

**Thank you, everyone who is watching me abuse their characters. It's the people you gave me that make this story what it is.**

**I hope you didn't hate this chapter as much as I do. Next week's installment might be late or very early, because lucky me, I have finals. Wish me luck, you silly people who are already out of school. I need it :)**

**Take care.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**A.N: I must preface this week's installment with a plea that any spelling errors be graciously overlooked. I have sprained my wrist rather horribly and the bandage keeping it from (evidently) disintegrating makes it very, very hard to type. But I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. Also, the request for teachers is still up. Yes, even if you have an OC already you can submit. And who said drama was limited to students?**

**X-X  
**

It is impossible to understand ideas without understanding their opposite. There is no light without darkness. There is no sorrow without joy. There is no weariness without excitement. There is no hatred without love. There is, of course, no good without evil.

People, Orson knew, were just like that. It was the basis behind all of his beliefs. He knew that everything happened for a reason. No matter the wrong done to him, he held that it would make him better in some way, even if it took a very long time. There was no kindness without first knowing abject cruelty. There was no sweetness or happiness or humor without an understanding of their brazen, sword-blade opposites. It was because of this that he was a good person. He understood what a bad person was, an aspired to be the opposite. Sometimes, though, sometimes. Sometimes that copper hatred he refused to acknowledge, sometimes it got out and spoke things he was not willing to say.

"Well," he coughed, his throat constricted with the things that poisoned him. He frowned and placed his hand on his bouncing knee. "I'm positive that everything will work out just fine, just you wait 'n' see, if so you please," he declared, but his eyes watched the pedestal where Tommi was retrieving a thick stack of papers. There, in those white papers dyed black with entwined inscriptions, there his fate had been decided. The muttering that had rippled across the room like chains stopped as the grey-haired boy cleared his throat and tossed his hair to the side, peering at the page in front of him.

"Friends," he called, grinning, "Enemies. Frenemies. Those of you who listen exclusively to country music," he said, and paused, holding up the clipboard that set their paths, "In my hands I hold your futures. You will be matched up with one other person, as I have said. All those battling will have two pokemon. If you had more, we chose two for you. If you had less, we broke into several day cares and storage facilities and took one," he beamed, and chuckled when this was met with an astonished gasp. "Actually, we just asked your families to send one. Well, except there were a few we couldn't get in touch with. Then we did do all that stuff I said we did," he assured them blandly, before continuing, "You will hear your name called, and then a letter. Go to the corresponding table and receive the pokemon. You will have two minutes to memorize their moves before we send you on your way. An upperclassmen must, I repeat, _must_ supervise any battles. Or I'll personally stake you with a desk lamp or something equally unpleasant. The battle will decide who takes their pokemon back to their dorm and who has to suffer the consequences. And I assure you, if you fail this test," he paused, and his soft eyes flashed iron, "There will be _dire_ consequences."

Tarrow stood up and took the clipboard from Tommi, cleared his throat, and with his deep smoke voice began, "The first pair is one Ms. Kelly Link against a certain Mr. Steve Frendt. Table A," he paused and waited for the two to stand before continuing. Orson gripped his knee with impatience. There seemed to be no logic to how the pairs were set up. It wasn't alphabetical. From the looks of the people who had been paired up already, it was singularly diabolical. There were no notes of encouraged acknowledgement. Everyone was battling an unknown enemy, and it felt like flying blind.

Slowly the room dissolved into seven lines in front of a row of black tables, the only talking a hushed murmuring of pathetic dissent. Orson heard his name called, and it echoed in his ears like an eternal thunderclap. He stood and patted Jarel on the back, giving him an encouraging smile. He peered across the room and watched a slim girl unfold herself and walk towards the same table as he was headed. He grinned at her half-heartedly, taking his place in line next to her.

He did the gentlemanly thing and held out his hand. "Why hello, my soon-to-be opponent. I do so hope this ain't gonna come a'tween us, as I have not yet had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, and should like to in the future. Name's Orson. Orson Leander Raymond, if you so please," he announced, shaking her warm palm. She smiled sort of shyly and replied, "Kratch. Uh, Kratch Farcett," she elucidated, and then wrapped her arms around her body, bouncing up and down on her heels. Orson grinned widely and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, Miss Farcett, I imagine I will treat your pokemon with the same, if not better, attitude that I treat my own. I assure you, they are in good hands," he promised, and she looked away, her ocean-mist eyes dark with brooding. She realized she had not reciprocated the thought, so she smiled sadly and stated, "Same here," and meant it. Orson grinned broadly as they reached the front of the line. "Don't you worry, Miss Farcett, everything will be alright," he assured her, and handed his trainer card over to one of the two upperclassmen behind the desk.

The tall, shorthaired girl took it from him with a practiced grace, as the short, chattering boy next to her fumbled with Kratch's. "I am Caen," she stated, as she scribbled notes onto a clipboard. She jerked her pen towards the boy. "This is Rhyme. If we are not here when you finish, find us and tell us the results of the battle," she instructed in a monotone to Orson, while Rhyme made a poem to tell Kratch the very same information. Caen sent the large boy a look, spearing him with her dark eyes, and he nodded to show he understood. She filled out a few more pages, then handed him a packet with information on the pokemon he was about to receive. Orson choked a little. The packet didn't have any sense of direction. The moves were all hidden within the eternal cramped writing, in between completely useless data, such as preferred food or habitat. He started scanning the pages desperately. He would temporarily be the sole proprietor of a Luxio named Lux and a Skitty named Skit. He glanced up briefly to Kratch flipping quickly through the pages, biting her lip. He refocused, praying he would find what he needed in the time allotted.

When Caen called his time, taking the packet from him, he wasn't sure he was ready. Kratch, meanwhile, returned her stack of papers with a certain confidence that made Orson singularly uncomfortable. He shoved his hands back into his pockets and felt the copper sting of self-doubt. He grinned shakily as Caen filled out some more papers, her keen eyes scrolling like nails across the black ink. She said something to the porter behind her, he disappeared, and she filled out some more papers. Orson just stood there and bobbed his head in a friendly manner, as if he had any idea what to do. Behind her, the sky had a particular sense of being both dark and light. Despite the cloud cover, it was still well lit outside. Orson snuck a look at his watch. It was almost five. He sighed. Supper was supposed to happen at five, but from the looks of things, he wouldn't be eating for quite some time.

The sprightly porter sprang back into place, handing her a fresh box of pokeballs, divided by neat little pieces of cardboard. She ran her long fingers over the box until she found Kratch's name and then handed him the two red and white orbs, sending him a look. "Of course," she said, "I am to remind you that, should any irreparable damage occur to the pokemon over which you are presiding, you will be held responsible. It would not be a good thing," she affirmed, and he nodded, tucking them into his belt. He looked up to Kratch bobbing her head to something Rhyme had said as she too gently put away what she had received. Caen cleared her throat and stated, "Tarrow will be overseeing your battle. Follow him," she commanded, before calling, "Next."

Tarrow appeared like blue mist, extending one hand to them empirically. "Challengers! Afraid of what might occur? Unsure of the outcome? No need to fear," he purred, and made a deck of cards materialize in his left pal. He shuffled them expertly and held it out to Kratch, promising, "One time only free offer," while she took the top one awkwardly. She glanced at it, furrowed her brow and showed him. He grinned. "Ah, the Chariot," he began, before Orson stopped him.

"I am sorry to interrupt, sir, as I am sure the card which the fine lady has chosen does indeed possess legitimate data on the outcome of the future, if you so please, but we do need to git a move on, as I would like for this debacle to be over as soon as possible," Orson supplied. Tarrow sent him a very irritated look, but then swirled in his blue robes, leading them out of the room, chattering to Kratch the entire time.

"You see, the Chariot represents victory, control, and an assertive sense of success. It's all in the Fool's Journey – which is, of course, a metaphysical representation of the path towards self-actualization. It is associated with the number…" he trailed off as they arrived in an open area. He sighed, clapping his hands. "I am afraid I do carry on, my dear, and I must address the task to which I was assigned. Challengers, take your places on opposite sides of the battling area," he called, and Kratch and Orson obediently trudged away from each other until it seemed an appropriate distance. Around them, other pairs were setting up, the large expanse of grass between buildings providing a perfect area to battle.

Kratch restlessly fumbled a pokeball into the air, and with a flash of red a happy little Lotad materialized before her, taking his battle position. Kratch bit her lip as he saw his trainer across the way and gave a little croak of confusion. He darted his black eyes towards the ball in her hand and let out a little sad chirp. Kratch wanted to cry as Lux gazed at her and let out a mournful, betrayed whine, as if she had ripped his heart out. Orson had a cracked smile on his face, as if he was looking for the good in the situation but it was getting hard to do. Kratch balled her fist as she tasted blood and knew she understood how he felt.

"Lux," Orson called out, glad the nickname was easy to remember, "Use Spark," he commanded. The little canine gave him a look, appraising him, and then twisted to face the Lotad, his black and blue fur glittering with charge. Kratch bit her lip harder and had to search before she remembered the little pokemon's nickname. "B-Bardo! Um," she paused and shook herself, regaining her confidence. She didn't have time to freak out like this. Lux was almost about to fire. "Use Bubble Beam," she hissed, and instantly a stream of bubbles rushed out of the tiny pokemon's maw, springing out to meet the oncoming river of electric. As soon as they touched, Kratch could hear the steam created hiss into the grey skies, but Lux had charged much longer than Bardo, and it showed. The balls of light darted like glass into the tiny creature, who simply closed his eyes and accepted it as if it was his duty. He looked up to the gently smiling Orson with a certain degree of hurt, and let out a chirp, as if he was asking if the nightmare was over it was time to wake up. Only Kratch heard, and she pressed her fingernails into her palm. What had happened to her certainty? Lux just shook his head at her and sat down, as if wondering why she had chosen to be an evil person, why she had chosen to trade him without asking for his consent. Kratch wanted to sprint towards him and hug him and promise to never leave him again, but Tarrow stood in the middle, watching the battle. He would stop her. The only way to get Lux back was to win. She had to, but her heart hurt like poison. She wanted to leave. She wanted to go home. She wanted to restart and never choose Frost School for The Exceptionally Talented. She wanted to return to her little green home and never think about battling or training again.

Orson didn't think. He couldn't think. If he thought, it would taste like copper flower petals. It would taste like an empty ocean and forgetting to breathe. He lived to protect and he promised himself that sometimes it hurt to protect the ones you love. He drew a breath and murmured, "Alrigh' then, Lux, use Thunder Fang, finish him off quicklike," and the Luxio's blue jaws began to glow with power. He raced across the field, dodging the Bubble Beam sent his way, his black paws slamming into the grass so he could crash directly into the smaller creature, his teeth clamping around the Lotad's neck, sending vicious lines of electricity all around Bardo's body. The creature let out a deep, sorrowful croak that ripped Kratch's heart into shreds. Lux looked up and stared, confused, into her eyes. He whined, just once, and then dejectedly trudged back to Orson. Bardo let out a final shudder and fainted, and Kratch wanted to faint with him, if only to get out of where she was. She recalled him back into the pokeball, and fumbled for the next one, trying not to think about the way the Lux's whine sounded, like a tumble from a falling piano, like the final notes played before the grave is filled.

She didn't even realize what she was doing, but she knew that she'd let out Orson's next pokemon. His eyes widened as he saw who it was and the grin dropped off his face. The Teddiursa put one paw to her mouth and sat down, whimpering. She shivered at the sight of Kratch, mewling in despair. "Ursula," Kratch called, but it got caught in her throat. All she could see were Lux's lantern eyes, filled with quiet hurt. All she could see were Ursula's deep brown eyes, filled with shivering terror. All she could see were Orson's falling petal eyes, filled with uncertain, quaking horror. All she could hear was her heart and that one whine from Lux, that one helpless note filled with quivering finality, as if she had signed over her soul, her morals, her love, her everything for some stupid school, for some stupid battle, for her stupid pride. She couldn't hurt him. She couldn't hurt Ursula. She couldn't hurt Orson. She couldn't hurt anyone.

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, trying to hold her shaking in. "I forfeit," she murmured, and then repeated it louder, so that her crackling ember voice broke against the empty sky. Tarrow ducked his head in acknowledgement and held out one card towards the boy, claiming him the victor in a somber tone as if he took no pleasure from the action. Kratch recalled Ursula and miserably stepped towards Tarrow, plodding behind him as they made their silent way back to the cafeteria. Orson paused as he opened the door, and gave her a look she would never forget. "Thank you," he said, in a voice like the clouds across the sky. She just nodded and bit her lip until she tasted that familiar bittersweet metallic tang.

She slid in front of the line and reported the results quietly, handing over the two pokeballs. Orson got his back. She did not. He shook his head and held out his hand. "I cannot thank you enough," he murmured, and she felt like crying again, "I will not easily forget what you have done for me," he promised, before Tarrow led him away to wherever the victors got to go.

She chose an empty table and sat down, wishing her blood didn't leak with copper sorrow.

xxxxxxx

Nathan rolled the pokeball that was not his over his fingers like some sick ritual. He watched the red and white spin and wondered why his mind felt like it was being suffocated with snow. Across the field his Haunter materialized in that familiar red flash, and the deep buzzing in his head got louder, like someone was stifling his thoughts with downy-soft grey cotton. He coughed once and let out the Charmeleon called Pyro he had acquired. He clenched his fist as the pressure inside of his head pushed outwards with cruel fury. His nails bit into his palm and the blood that trickled across his knuckles made him think of nothing else but an open casket and a vase of white flowers. He wanted to be angry or nervous or upset but the thick droning in his head obliterated everything.

Nathan looked down. The pokeball that was not his was covered in his blood. When had that happened? He blandly wiped it off and pressed the button, letting out the other pokemon. He watched it appear. A Cubone. His name was Kota, Nathan knew, but it seemed unimportant. Nathan coughed and examined his palm. Yes. It was bleeding. The deep smoke fog in his head got thicker. He couldn't remember where he was or why everything hurt. All he knew was that the two creatures across the field made his heart twist like ivory knots. All he knew was that something was very, very wrong inside of him, and that he should care about it. He didn't. He didn't care about anything except the way his blood dripped in slow heartbeats onto the grass below. He loved that, somehow. The blood wasn't his anymore either. It was the Earth's. That felt right. He didn't deserve it. The smog in his head told him so.

Tobi faced Nathan and narrowed his eyes. His mind clicked through reels of information he'd recorded and gave the Haunter and Murkrow names: Keno and Akira. Everything was crystal glass sharp, like the edge of pity's sword. His brain fled through battle plans and strategy, but he knew it was going to be based on luck. He flicked through reels of his previous battles and wished it could be different, even though he knew it couldn't be. He didn't want to hurt his pokemon. He would make their ending as swift and painless as possible. If he did not win, he was certain the pain they would be in later would be much worse. It was all for them. In the back of his mind, in sepia, his memories twirled through all the times they had spent together. He hoped Pyro and Kota would understand. He did it for them. He did it for them. Nothing else mattered.

Nathan cracked open his mouth and barked, "Pyro, use Smokescreen," as if everything was all right, as if this was a normal battle. The red lizard turned and regarded him mildly, seemed to shrug a little, and followed the instructions. He lit a fire in the back of his mouth until it smoked fiercely, and let out the stream of thick spite. Nathan blinked and watched it fill the area. It looked just like what was inside of his head: sheer nothingness. Nathan watched and wondered what would happen if he lost. It didn't seem to matter anymore. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. It was as if he had chained a great beast and his subconscious was unwilling to free it. It was as if he knew that the moment his clarity returned, it would not be his blood spilt. But then, as soon as it touched the air, it wouldn't be anyone's blood at all.

Tobi responded instantly, although Nathan couldn't see it. His mind searched through files until he found Keno's moves. "Sneak through the smoke and use Lick," Tobi growled quietly, his blue eyes harsh with planning. Keno looked ready to challenge that idea, but Tobi stared him down. He had to be cruel because it was the nicest thing to do. Being unrealistically sweet or forgiving at this point was ill advised. He would take down Pyro as quickly as he could, and then Kota would follow. He would win and then he would take them home and nurse them back to health with his own hands, he would show them he loved them, he would let them sleep in his bed, he'd give them sweets and toys and make their favorite meals and regain their trust. He just had to destroy them first.

His ears echoed with the sound of Pyro's cry. He knew the noise intimately. That was the sound of his loved one's pain. The stealth attack he'd planned against his own heart had worked perfectly. He could tell. For no reason he could see, momentarily the constant reel in his head flickered into darkness.

Nathan watched Keno appear and run its poison tongue on the struggling lizard. He smiled a little. They were like two young children playing, except in the end the only person that was to blame, the only person that got hurt, the only person playing at all was Nathan. They were so sweet in their illusion. It didn't matter that some iron chain was loosening like grief inside of his body. It didn't matter that slowly, slowly, a thick black tail swiped across darkness inside of his mind. "Pyro," he called sweetly, "Use Dragon Rage," he sang, and suddenly from the red maw fire sprang like vengeance. It seared across Keno and burned away the smoke. Nathan looked down at his other palm. When had he cut into that one? And why didn't it hurt the way it was supposed to? And why did he get the impression that something, something important, had snapped into pieces and had blow away, like the petals in her hair the day she died? He remembered that: the way they'd flown like summer and left him, the way they tumbled like spun sugar into an open sky. He could feel them inside of his head. They stopped him from thinking.

When had Keno started to attack? Was that Shadow Punch? It glanced off of Pyro's skin like venom off of sand. He could see the mark it made. He felt something too, looking into his Haunter's eyes. It was guilt. It was betrayal. It was a satisfied horror that he was, in fact, staying calm because the alternative made him think of the blood dripping from his skin like petals.

"Use Dragon Rage again," Nathan said, but it sounded like nontoxic oil-based paint, like a slick of color almost recalled. Pyro did not listen. Pyro, Nathan figured, had more on his mind. Like not fainting. Like why his owner had shunned him in this way. Like what was for dinner. Or, Nathan thought, maybe he just did not like using the same move twice. Tobi's voice rang through his ears. Hypnosis. That was probably a bad sign.

Keno's mouth opened and silence hurtled across the grass. Nathan couldn't hear it, of course. The noise was far too high for humans. The brick-colored creature's light blue eyes began to drift shut. Now, it seemed, was as good a time as any for a nap. He curled up and promptly fell asleep. Tobi watched the process with a sick clarity. He had just put his own pokemon to sleep. Next he would eat away at the poor thing's life, one move at a time. "Nightmare," he commanded, watching as the Haunter carried out the order. He felt the impact in his chest. The nightmare inflicted whirled on repeat in his head. Pyro kicked and wailed but did not wake. Toni couldn't tell if he was happy about that or not. "Lick," he added, as the Nightmare continued. Quick. Easy. In sleep.

A pair of mist blue eyes opened and tried to understand. The lizard yawned, stretched, and without any sort of instruction let loose a torrent of inescapable fire. Keno let out a soft, horrible cry before fainting, his shifting skin burnt black. Pyro was kneeling, trying to breathe. It wouldn't take much to put him out of his misery. Tobi nudged the Murkrow forwards. She gave him a strange look, as if she wasn't sure she should disobey. "Wing Attack," he commanded, and she took to the skies like a black poison dart. Pyro made as if to dodge, but didn't move in time. His body hitting the ground made the same sound as Tobi's heart hitting his chest.

Nathan turned to the Cubone. "Ice Beam," he said, but instead the creature whipped a bone towards the foe. Akira didn't seem to mind. She dodged it and tried to fly away. Tobi whistled harshly at her and gave her a command. Wing Attack again. Nathan opened his mouth, but the attack from Kota was continuing. The bone sped around in the air, hitting Akira in her chest. Nathan thought that was funny. Out of everywhere, the place inside of him that hurt the most was his chest. Something was strangling under the weight of cotton apathy. Like vengeance, Akira descended from the sky, her wings beating Kota before she retreated to access the damage. Nathan blinked. She was fabulous. He wished he had gotten to battle with her before he handed her off to someone else. It was nice to know her moves though. Oh yes. It was all very nice indeed.

Kota whipped a Bone Club towards Akira. She dodged it with stunning precision, and without any instruction she dove into a beautiful Pursuit, her black body like impermanent thread across the grey sown sky. She was magnificent. She belonged to no one. It was like his blood. He watched Kota fall and moved without thinking, recalling the pokemon before he could hit the ground. That was it. There was no fanfare. The upperclassmen presiding over their battle just nodded to Tobi and started to walk back. Nathan ran the blood-stained pokeballs over and over his blood-stained hands.

Something dangerous and soft love grey quivered inside of him. It sounded like a broken heart. It sounded like summer ending. It sounded like ice melting and the ocean freezing. It sounded like horror slipping out of a paper cup. It sounded like wings falling from the sky. It sounded like blood under fingernails and on palms and in the ground and escaping from wide red eyes and it sounded like a coffin being nailed shut. It sounded like bright, brilliant, sickening abhorrence, like quagmire treetop loathing, like a black feather resting inside of a clenched fist. It sounded like hate.

It sounded like Nathan.

xxxxxxx

Sage unleashed the Growlithe and Zangooze out onto the grass. The little fire one positioned his paws and let out a growl. Davion teetered over and smiled sweetly to the girl presiding over them. A warm blush spread across her face like quick death. He tossed his hair and grinned at her. Her breath caught in her throat. Sage wanted to puke. Or punch him. Maybe both, at the same time.

Davion reached out one hand to shake, and when Sage took it, he knew instinctively that something was wrong. In a singular movement, the better-muscled boy pulled down harshly and whipped one of his crutches around Sage's legs. Sage fell like a massive black tree, down, down, down. He was singularly furious as he met the ground. There was no way someone had just leg-swept him using a crutch. That was embarrassing. He could feel the bruises forming on his calf muscles. This was not a fun development for him. He considered model murder. It sounded fine to him.

Davion bolted for his pokemon. He gathered them up and let out a growl at the upperclassmen girl, who was going for backup. She paused and held out one hand, trying to stop him. "You know you forfeit if you do this," she called, and he threw a crutch at her head. It connected squarely to her temple and made the same sound as a book closing. She joined Sage on the green, helpless grass. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was Davion lumbering away on one crutch and Sage rising from his position, black tar against the oppressive green, like a marionette discovering free motion. It looked so wrong that it felt like white sticky web in her head. To the sound of malice she exited consciousness.

xxxxxxx

"It's _you_," Mika hissed fiercely, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Izzy squinted at him before a look of recognition plastered itself on her face. "Oh! Mika," she acknowledged, and he glared at her. She couldn't see why. They hadn't talked in three days, sure, but it wasn't like they were dating or anything. She looked down to the pokeballs he held in his hand and considered glaring at him as well. It wasn't worth it, she decided, slouching away from him. Tommi, who was watching over them, reached out one slim hand, tossing his hair away from his eyes. "Hey, Sunset," he called, and she turned, waiting. She bit her lip. It wasn't _that_ nice that he'd come up with a nickname for her. "Good luck," he said, and she smiled her tumbling leaf smile, taking her position.

She let out the two pokemon she'd temporarily inherited. A fierce, growling ball of black fur. An Umbreon, Izzy saw. Zulu, wasn't it? Then a Mankey. She tried not to think about the way their symphony in her head sounded wrong. Instead of crescendos there was a swooping sense of ending, of a tumble of chords like music played backwards. She tried to pet Zulu. She loved all pokemon, even fierce little tangles like him. He leaned away from her and growled cruelly. She withdrew her hand, just a little, on instinct, and he saw it. He knew he had the upper hand. Izzy cursed herself and cut her losses.

"Zulu," she hissed, with as much authority as she could muster, "Use Taunt," she commanded. He looked at her with what looked suspiciously like contempt. Inside of her mind, the wrong music played. She had switched from backwards classical to country. She felt Aster's presence in her head, but it was faint from distance and the fact she no longer had the pokeball. She hated it. She wanted to attack Mika, sword and all, and take him back. Her Shiftry left a feeling of confusion in her. He didn't bother making words. She understood and she hated that she did. She looked down. Zulu was glowing with a terrible velvet black power. He reared and brought his black paws down onto the ground, and his Dark Pulse rose to meet Aster. He raised his arms and glowed with blue. She recognized it. Protect. She sighed a little. She hadn't hurt him. She started to explain to him, in her head, what was happening. She hoped he heard. She hoped he understood. She peered at Mika, her eyes like brutal spears. He didn't seem to notice. That was probably due to the metal visor, though.

"Aster, use Grass Knot," Mika growled, his voice echoing through the armor. Harsh green vines whipped out from the creature and wrapped tightly around Zulu, like unforgiving chains. Automatically the black heartbreaker began to gnaw through it. Izzy flipped through her files until she found something he could use without moving. "Use Taunt," she ordered, and this time her voice was like falling glass. Zulu paused in his efforts and followed her command before continuing. Aster, in Izzy's head, made a tired noise. _I win for you,_ he promised, and she gritted her teeth. How could she tell him to lose? No, he would make her proud. He felt that, and she felt his power whip around him. Razor Wind. That was smart: Zulu couldn't do anything yet. The vortex he created was making a tornado around him. The Umbreon was almost through the vines.

It hit like torment. For a moment, Izzy couldn't even see the tiny creature. All she heard was his cry. She felt nothing but sheer, inexplicable guilt. In her head, she knew Aster wondered if he had done well. She congratulated him on a fantastic job. She told him that she was glad he was so strong. They'd practiced hard for it. Aster hummed a little. Anything for her.

When the debris cleared, Zulu was free of his chains. Without waiting for instructions, he bolted across the grass, his jaws glowing. He latched onto Aster, his Crunch spreading sticky purple pain across the larger pokemon's skin. He then trotted, satisfied, back to Izzy, facing his opponent with a growl. It was at this point that Aster flung another Grass Knot towards the unsuspecting creature. Zulu went down with a whine. It echoed in Mika's armor like a dissolving rainbow: so full of grey green sorrow.

He called something to Aster, who ignored him completely. Mika frowned. At least he was winning, though. That was ok, he thought. Aster was pulling power to his center. Mika could feel it. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Zulu, poor, fierce, loveable Zulu, was doomed. He could tell.

Aster let loose a single, thick beam of white power. Solar Beam. It engulfed the trapped Umbreon. Everyone knew the outcome. Izzy was kind enough to recall him before Mika could see the damage. He knew it was bad. He had heard Zulu's call, like pain ripping out across the sky. His Mankey was next. Aster was already calling up Razor Wind. Mika looked up as if divine intervention would keep his pokemon safe. Mankey was already tumbling across the grass, meeting Aster's body with a swift Low Kick. He was quick enough for a nice Scratch, too. But he was close. Too close.

Like Butterfree wings made out of venom, an impenetrable Razor Wind picked up Mankey and threw him like violence incarnate against the ground. He bounced, his blood staining the ground. Aster, in Izzy's mind, was a feeling of questioning pride. It had taken him one hit. Why was she so sad? She shook her head and quietly thanked Mankey, recalling him.

She promised Aster he had done fantastically, and then walked away from her shadow. The music in her head had stopped. Instead, there was only the echoing sound of her betrayal.

xxxxxxx

Will was grinning. Lucario had just told a joke. Even in another trainer's hands, Lucario was more or less his bother. Will cracked his knuckles and tucked his hair behind his ear, shifting his shoulders. "Let's _do_ this," he purred. Jarel, across the way, just sort of awkwardly patted Lucario on his head. Jenna, his Larvitar, was growling playfully at him. She was too young to understand what was happening. Will seemed nice to her and everything, but she just assumed it was a nice little battle before supper.

"Well then, my dear fellow, feel free to take the first move. No pressure, mind you, but I heard there is pasta for dinner tonight and I skipped lunch. So. Whenever you're ready," Will said, offering one hand and bowing a little. He wasn't worried. He didn't know why.

"Aura Sphere," Jarel grumbled, and with an assurance of practice, a ball of light formed in Lucario's paws. He pushed it out away from him, sending it spiraling into Jenna. It hit her tiny chest and sent her flying into Will. Her hard body slammed into his ribs. He felt several unpleasant cracks. The smile dropped off his face. He felt Lucario's panic instantly. It was one thing to injure another pokemon. It was completely different to injure one's owner. Will coughed. He could tell at least one of his ribs was broken. Larvitars do not have very forgiving bodies. Will grinned shakily and nodded when Jarel inquired after him. "No worries," he promised, "I don't actually need ribs to breathe or anything. Not that I need to breathe or anything," he paused and sucked in a large, painful breath, "I just like how the air tastes, is all."

"Jenna, Rock Slide," Will said, wrapping his arms around his torso. Automatically the little thing followed orders. Something, though, something was bothering Will. Lucario did not try to evade the attack. Lucario didn't move at all. He was silent in Will's head.

Then Will heard it: the cloud-soft deep chocolate rumble of his best friend. _I hurt Will_, was all he said, his eyes closed as if he was in a deep amount of pain. Will shook his head. "Nah," he replied, blasé, "I think that might have been the rock hurtled at me at a bazillion miles an hour," he murmured, knowing Lucario would hear. _I hurt Will_, he repeated, in a voice like a guilty reverberation.

Jarel suggested a move. Lucario didn't budge. Will, despite this, had already blurted out Jenna's next attack. She lunged forwards and sank her teeth into Lucario's blue skin in a perfect Bite. Will felt Lucario's pain like it was his own. It rippled throughout his body every time he drew a breath. "There," Will coughed, "I hurt you, you hurt me, now we can all go home and knit or something. I forgive you, although you didn't actually do anything," Will stated, because Lucario had gone suspiciously silent, the only response something close to a sigh.

Jarel, in his pine needle voice, told Lucario to use Psychic. The blue creature adopted the pose, one forepaw against his head, his black hind paws steady against the ground. Will smiled. All was well. He'd fixed whatever had hurt Lucario. "Jenna, darling, do use Rockslide," Will offered, and Jenna sent him a look. No, it looked like to Will, no she would not use something of normal effect when she had a super effective move waiting for employment. She raced across for another Bite. She was probably smarter than him, Will figured, although she did owe him several ribs.

It wasn't Psychic, Will realized, far too late. It was Swords Dance. It wouldn't damage Jenna at all. _I love Will,_ Lucario promised, like a velvet waterfall. _I hurt Will. I hurt Will. I love Will._ He closed his eyes as the Bite settled into his blood. Will cried out, "Fight back! Fight back! What are you doing? Please…fight back," he murmured, as in his head he felt Jenna sink her teeth in a third time, and then a horrible emptiness. He closed his eyes and heard his best friend being sucked back into oblivion wrapped in red and white. He didn't smile at all. There was nothing to smile about. In a fight that had been fair, it would have been fine. But Lucario had taken damage for an imaginary wrong. It bit at Will like soapbox poison. It was all his fault Lucario was so hurt. All his fault.

He heard Scizor appear and before he could open his eyes, heard him use X-Scissor. It was quick, clean, painless. Will recalled the fainted pokemon and replaced her with Smeargle. Giorno, wasn't it? Will sighed. Scizor was already rushing across the field. Everything felt dull and humorless, and instead of his ribs, all Will could feel was his heart. It seemed to have stopped. Will wondered if that was strictly healthy.

"Use Focus Punch," Will commanded, and it sounded like a real trainer, like someone hardened through battle. Will hated his new voice instantly. It sounded like oppression.

In Jarel's head, the whole exercise only seemed to prove a point. You had to hurt the ones you loved. He had hurt Jenna. He didn't mind the pain it was causing him to watch Smeargle take the Toxic he had just ordered. It felt like waking up. It felt like breathing. It felt like the way people looked at him.

"Signal Beam," Will said, in his new split monotone. It tasted like copper filings and iron chains and chewed wires and forgotten birthdays and unremembered nightmares. He knew Giorno was poisoned. He knew it was bad too. His newfound horrible emptiness, where only his voice lurked, did not in any way care. It just was. Will was most likely going to lose. He thought that was funny, that he was losing. It seemed to him, the moment he had started winning, that he had lost everything important to him and it was all his fault. He wished he hadn't made a pact with Death. He wished he could actually talk to Death like he said he could and have Death take him away in his glittering stardust chariot. They'd be best friends, all three of them. It would be nice, except all the cookies they ate would taste of moss and all the biscuits of lichen. And every time Death sneezed, a plague would start. They'd have to put an end to that, of course. Maybe introduce some allergy medicine.

Had he been battling? It was like flying on autopilot. He reviewed. The Signal Beam had missed. A well-aimed X-Scissor had driven straight into Giorno. The poor thing had been badly wounded from the Toxic attack. It had fought back with a weak Focus Punch. It had met that singularly horrible move X-Scissor again. Will had recalled him as he fell.

Inexplicably, Will began to laugh, like cobwebs in the air.

xxxxxxx

Yuki smiled at the dark girl in front of her. "So you're Grace?" she asked, a little nervously. The brunette nodded and held out her hand to shake. By her side, Yuki's Dratini and Cyndaquil were sending their owner very hurt looks. She tried not to notice. It was better that way. And she had to be happy. She just had to be.

"Don't worry," she sang, watching the way Grace's Butterfree clip caught the sun, "I'll take good care of Tabbot and Serafina," she promised. The Houndour stood proudly, while Tabbot just shifted until he was lying down. Yuki couldn't help but feel a little panic. Serafina looked like she would battle in an instant, if you gave her the chance, but what if Tabbot wouldn't move at all? Yuki absolutely could not lose. There would be horrible, terrible things if she lost.

Grace nimbly padded to the other side of the field, waited for the upperclassmen to signal the beginning of the battle, and promptly sat down. "What are you doing?" Yuki laughed. It seemed like an incredibly childish thing to do. "I won't make Tab fight," Grace yawned, "I don't care about any stupid rules or whatever."

The Dratini, Ryu, seemed to agree with her philosophy. He curled up sleepily, watching her. Yuki laughed. She sat down too. "Oh, me neither," she agreed, "I don't know who thought this would be a good idea. I know Flare probably wants to fight, but I can't stand to see him hurt," she stated, and Grace grinned. The brunette crawled closer and Yuki followed her movements so that they met at the center, giggling. "I don't see why we didn't just walk," Yuki pointed out, and Grace shrugged, pulling up the grass. "Did you know," she stated, "That the white parts of grass are eatable?" Yuki laughed and shook her head.

Their upperclassmen sighed and checked the wrist where he was sure he used to have a watch. He frowned. "Look, if neither one of you are going to battle, then you both forfeit. That means no winners. You understand that, right?"

Grace nodded and ran one hand through each of her pokemon's fur. The sweet love she had on her face made Yuki think of a song she couldn't quite remember, so she just hummed it. For a moment, trapped in time, neither moved. Grace leaned and kissed her Houndour on the nose. "I'm sorry I haven't used you in so long, Fina. I love you, I do," she murmured, "I won't leave you like that again, ok?"

She scratched Tabbot right behind his ears, the way he liked it. She put her forehead to his and closed her eyes, as if communicating psychically. She drew a breath and stood up, wiping her hands off on her black jeans. She was covered with white, red, and black fur. She grinned at the sight of it.

She helped Yuki up and held her hand. "I think," she postulated, "You and I are going to be fabulous friends," she sang, and Yuki smiled. The upperclassmen just rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. He looked down. Hadn't he been wearing gloves?

They entered the cafeteria and turned away from the sight of other people walking away from their pokemon. Grace slid in between Nathan and a cute boy she'd never seen before. She introduced everyone to Yuki, and then addressed the matter of Nathan's hand. She had a sweet sort of smile on her face despite the fact that most of the room, holding only half of the freshmen, was thick with disappointment. Everyone missing had won. Their absence stung like broken hearts.

"Darling," she sang, "The blood rituals are not for two more days," she said, and produced cleaning wipes and bandages from nowhere, wrapping them expertly while explaining that her father was a doctor. Nathan felt the sting of the cleaning agent on his cuts and didn't say anything. He didn't know why. "Izzy, you know Nathan," Grace guessed, and Izzy nodded. She was sitting on the other side of the writer. He smelled like grass and a familiar darkness. His eyes were like wandering ice. She wondered why he smiled at her so sweetly.

"I am Will, by the way," said the boy Grace had never met. She grinned and held up her blood-stained hands. "I would acknowledge the meeting," she noted, "But I've been out slaughtering tiny window elves, and their blood is caustic to all but the True Heir," she stated, blasé. Will smiled and it felt strange. Something was returning to him. It felt like reason.

He leaned across the table to see Nathan's hands better and saw Izzy. Her hair sparkled like morning sunshine and forgetfulness. She grinned at him briefly, before glancing back to Grace's efforts. The small girl had produced more antiseptic cleaning wipes, and was washing her hands with them. This was followed with an antibacterial scrub. She threw out all of the wrappers she used and slid back down as if producing first aid kits from nowhere was normal. A lot about Grace was not normal, Will thought, and couldn't tell what he felt about that. Everything inside of him was still mixed up. Mostly he felt horrid anticipation. Someone was going to come and tell them the price for losing. Someone was going to tear him down farther than he was. He wondered if that was possible. He seriously doubted it. He wondered if he should tell her about the broken ribs. Maybe she could fix that. He wondered why he didn't want his ribs fixed. Maybe it was because the pain reminded him how horrible he was. That, Will figured, or he was developing masochism.

Nathan thanked Grace and stretched his hands, seeing how far his white chains stretched. "You should see the nurse, you know," Grace chided, and then Tommi was up on stage, shuffling papers. He cleared his throat, but it wasn't necessary. The room was already silent.

He looked at them and gave them a sweet, slow smile. "My dear, dear, _dear_ freshmen. Congratulations. You have passed this test. Your pokemon will be awarded back to you, fully healed. As such, we have arranged a feast. Eat up, you lucky losers. You've passed your first examination at Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented, and trust me, that is no small feat. Enjoy your dinner," he said, in a voice like an opening present.

Joy spread silver through the room, in glorious green glass hope. Even if it was a lie, it rang like impossibility in the minds of those who wished it into truth.

X-X

**A.N: I am super-duper sorry this is so late, but finals made my brain slow and sticky. It would have not been a good chapter. Thank you for the patience and outpouring of love. You all made me blush each time I got a review, which I imagine would be funny to watch.  
**

**A few notes: While pokemon battles are a ton of fun, I believe they are wholly fictional and the creatures are in no real danger. But in real life, animals get pitted against each other every day. To see how you can help contact:  
-The Human Society (USA)**  
**-People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (I promise they are not all crazy)**  
**-Or, if you suspect abuse of any kind; The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals**

**Also, I make a reference to "The Fool's Journey." If you are curious in things like the Tarot, I highly recommend investigating it. I had to while I was writing a story for my friend. That story is fifty pages long.**

**If you feel this chapter has wronged you in some way ("but I should have won/lost!") a _lot _of math, research, and honest hard work went into it. If you are uncertain of the veracity of my results, just contact me and I'll explain why it ended up the way it did. Also, I'm sure this twist sounds contrived, but like everything there is logic behind it. :)**

**Thank you, thank you, thank you, all of you who reviewed :) I love you all so much and am humbled to use your characters. I was thinking of doing something for my 50th review, since I clearly have a thing about milestone numbers. I'm not actually sure what this would be. So. :P**

**Oh and important note: I am red-green colorblind. While I try to keep descriptions of a pokemon as close to to the truth as possible, sometimes I cannot find in words the color of the small things, like the eyes or wings or whatever. If at any point you notice a mistake, please please please message me and inform me so I can fix the error in later chapters. :)**

**Thank you for reading the Seventh Chapter of The Frost Experiment. I hope you enjoyed it. **

**Take care.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A.N: As always, I love new characters. While I've been asking for teachers, I'd love anyone, actually. The only problem with teachers is that I can't use them yet, so while I'll take them, they won't show up until school actually starts. So, you know, you've got a ton of time to plan. Or something. :)**

X-X**  
**

Tommi sighed as the room around him rang with voices. He dragged his long fingers through his thick hair, peering at the freshmen. He smiled a little to himself. For once, the announcement he didn't mind the announcement he had to give. Instead of panic, he heard a sort of tulip joy. He shuffled his cue cards, giving time for the suspense to build. If he had known what being captain of the orientation team meant doing…

He looked up and grinned. "It's all very simple," he yawned, while around him ugly hope ran it's viper coils through the crowd, "The test was not about whether or not you could battle. We know you can battle. It was whether you could battle against your own family. We here at Frost generally frown on those who would turn traitor. Whether they won for pride, or through planning, or because they believed they were doing the best, they still lost the trust of their pokemon. We hope that not all of you lost out of luck. We hope that most of you refused to perform your best because watching your best friends squirm with pain was too much. So congratulations again. You're not a horrible monster."

This was met with stunned silence. He looked down at his cue cards, flipping through them. He was not looking forwards to the speech he would be making later in the night. From somewhere in the crowd, someone shouted out a question about the other half of the freshmen. Tommi looked up, smiled wanly, and did not reply. Instead, after a short pause, he leaned forwards, calling, "Let the carnal destruction of pasta _begin,_" and his voice was met with a wave of appreciative cheers. Tommi looked up. His favorite part was the moment the porters appeared, all laden down with food. They always elicited a small gasp, because they came from nowhere. He knew where the kitchen was, and he always watched the door, but there was never any hint of it moving. The porters just appeared from the shadows like slithering ghosts.

Tommi slid the cards into his pocket and slid down the stairs, moving like falling rain. One of his teammates held out a hand. "You don't have to do this," she murmured. She knew where he was going. He smiled at her and shook his head. "You know I do," he replied, and she looked away. His words struck with the sharp sting of veracity, and it chilled both of them. He slid his hands into his pockets. There was just too much at stake for him to disobey. Far, far too much.

His agile body glided out of the doors, unnoticed. Around him, people were getting their pokemon back, drowning the room in feverish excitement and relief. He stepped out into the quick dusk, drawing a breath of the razor-sharp mountain air. It would be dark soon. He didn't have much time. The other half of the freshmen were being kept near the nurse's office. The great red-roofed building leered at him from the distance. Tommi didn't understand why the four buildings on the outside circle were so far from each other. He hunched his shoulders against the cold. A storm was coming. He could feel it in the way he breathed. Jogging lightly, he let out his Torchic, knowing the fire pokemon could help him see in the oncoming darkness. "Trophy," he murmured, as the little thing materialized beside him. The ball of red feathers was already running beside him, his tiny wings flapping with the effort. Tommi smiled and paused in his running, letting Trophy catch up. If the Torchic would allow it, the writer would just scoop him up and carry him, but the pokemon was too proud for that. It made Tommi sort of sad, for no reason he could think of.

"Hey, buddy," Tommi purred, as Trophy danced ahead of him, "How was your rest? Good? Good," he smiled, jogging again. His pokemon centered him. Everything made sense when they were around. He could smile and make jokes all he wanted, but they made him feel like he was doing the right thing, that he wasn't being horrible, that he wasn't just working out of his own self-interest.

The nurse's building drew nearer. It glinted with white tiles in the darkness. It was, like all the buildings of the outer ring, completely different than the rest. As he got nearer, the more minute details appeared. He glanced at the white walls. He knew what they held: swirls of black cracking their perfection. It wasn't surprising. That was just Frost: everything seemed so lollipop perfect until you saw little things. The entranceway was entirely glass, with wide windows that made the front look like a setting sun. There was something poetic about that, Tommi knew, something about how at first it had looked like the sun was rising to him. He'd been at Frost too long. He was positive it was setting instead. He yanked open the doors, nodded to the nurse behind the counter, and ran up the stairs. Trophy was right behind him, chirping with excitement. Tommi threaded through the hallways, swishing his head left to right, reading the door numbers. There it was – E322. He pulled open the wooden door, ducking his head in, calling "Are we all set?" This was met with a chorus of agreement, and then he was on the move again. Down the stairs, out of the building, across the expanse of grass, into a different building, up the stairs, onto the roof. Trophy was panting by this point, but Tommi needed the light that the fire pokemon naturally gave off. Already the darkness was oppressive. Tommi passed through the crowd gathered on the roof and murmured to their leader. Everything was set. He sighed and looked up. The stars etched their white existence out onto the blackness. There was something good, he reminded himself, there was always something good about everything. Up in the mountains, far from any city smog, the stars crowded together like a swift ivory blanket.

Tommi sighed and padded to the edge of the roof, picking up the squirming Trophy. One day, when his wings were grown, the pokemon would be able to make the jump on his own, but for right now, Tommi assisted his flight. Taking a deep breath, Tommi pushed off the edge of the roof, sailing out in a perfect arc, hitting the ground with practiced ease, right in the middle of a large crowd. His presence made the group collectively gasp. Tommi smiled. Right now, they were riding high on the idea of their victory. Like wilting flowers, he was going to destroy that. It didn't matter, he promised himself. Maybe, he thought, maybe some of them wouldn't be completely crushed. Maybe some of them had already figured out something strange was going down. Maybe.

He pulled himself to his full height, but it wasn't necessary. The freshmen were used to him now – they were already silent with anticipation for the announcement that he was going to make. "People, my people," he said, and it held his customary kidding, as if he was just a lighthearted dictator, as if this was nothing to him, as if watching their faces fall and their hope extinguish was a joke, as if every part of his body didn't reject what he had to do. His mouth cracked open to tell them of their fate. It didn't matter, he thought. He was just pouring out more black in omnipresent darkness.

"As you may have noticed," he purred, "We have taken your pokemon again, under the cunning guise of healing them in time for your victory feast. Did you enjoy that? Did you enjoy the idea that you would eat while your pokemon suffered? Tell me," he murmured, and hated it, "What made you into villains when you could have been heroes? Tell me, please, because, honestly, it's your last chance to pass this test," he waited while the discomfort curled through the crowd, "And I'm so…" he had to pause and clear his throat before spitting out more lies, "I'm so glad to be able to tell you this, because this is how all of Frost works. Nothing is ever as it seems. You must become acclimated with that idea. So, my darling freshmen, wake up. It's time for your punishment. It's been long in coming," he promised, and suddenly, from rooftops and windows, black shapes dripped like thunder towards the group. With quick cruelty, they were all taken down, their screams muffled, their fight suppressed. Tommi watched it happen, ran his hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. When they thought of the sudden brutality of their orientation, they would blame only him. That was his purpose. It didn't matter that he wasn't the only one showing unexplained apathy. All he was required to do was make speeches and take the fall. It didn't matter, he thought. He would shoulder hatred willingly. That wasn't his worst nightmare. His worst nightmare was what awaited him if he failed.

As the bodies were dragged into the darkness, he reached down and put Trophy on his shoulder, handing the little pokemon a treat. The bird chirped and crunched it, and then they were on the move again, just the two of them, just two more shapes in inexorable darkness.

xxxxxxx

Will was finding it hard to breathe. She was sitting there, watching him, and his ribs tightened. Grace saw. Under her feet, Tabbot and Serafina curled in a contented circle, one black and one white. Grace kept sneaking them bits of her food, which made Will smile. But the look she was giving him right then was not happy. Her dark eyes narrowed. "Will," she said, and then suddenly her face returned to its normal happiness. "I have a joke," she announced, and the chattering around her hushed for a moment. Will liked that: she had a strange power over the others, if not only because she had brought them all together. "What did the police say when they caught a thief?" Grace asked, popping a grape in her mouth and looking sly. Will shook his head. She grinned. "_Police_ to meet you," she said, and the others at the table laughed from how stupid it was. Will laughed too, and instantly regretted it. His broken ribs did not appreciate the joke at all. Grace had been watching him the whole time and caught his look of pain the second it crossed his face.

"I knew it," she hissed, as the others went back to chattering, "You're hurt," she stated, and Will looked away. He frowned a little, tucking his hair behind one ear. He twirled his pasta around his fork, shrugging. "It's nothing, just some bruises," he lied, but it sounded like plastic. Grace rolled her eyes and stood up, clicking her tongue at her pokemon. Serafina instantly lurched to her feet, ready for whatever came her way, while Tabbot slowly rose from the floor like an oncoming blizzard. Grace wrapped her arm around Will's and pulled him up. "You come too, Lucario, Scizor," she called, tugging Will out of the room. Grace's roommate looked up, surprised. "Where you headed?" Izzy asked, watching the two of them slide away. "Nurse," Grace threw over her shoulder, before she and Will disappeared into the darkness. Through the windows, Izzy could see the faint glow from Serafina as they slowly made their way across the grass. A strange feeling came over her, but before she could address it, she had pasta in her lap.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry," Kratch exploded. She had been going to sit next to her roommate, but her Skitty had gotten underfoot and tripped her. Rapid-fire guilt rang through her bones as she stared at the mess she'd made. Izzy just laughed and accepted one of the many napkins she was offered. "It's fine," she promised, "Yours didn't have any sauce on it," she noted, glad for this fact. She cleaned herself up and then noticed that across the table, Davion still held out a napkin, waiting for her to take it. He had sat down about halfway through the dinner, and apparently did not take kindly to unaccepted gifts. She slowly reached out and took it from him awkwardly, dabbing at the few places she had left on her. "Thanks," she muttered, and he ducked his head at her. She couldn't look at him. Some things were not right with the world. That boy was one of them. It just wasn't fair he was so hot.

Kratch slipped into a seat beside Yuki, keeping her head down. Izzy grinned, "Don't worry about it. Seriously. I'm Izzy, by the way," she said, shaking hands with the slim girl. "Kratch," she coughed in response. Izzy leaned across Yuki and shifted her shoulders, grinning. The braids in her hair fell like lilies around her face. Yuki liked being in the center. Around them, happy chatter filled the room, and it sounded right in her ears. She joked and laughed and held her pokemon maybe a little too tightly, but only out of love.

Something bothered her, though, something in the way the voices sounded, something about who was present. Something bothered her with the same sense of discomfort that she had previously experienced when the woman had chirped on the intercom. She couldn't think about it too hard. Right then, all that mattered was that she had her pokemon back, unscathed. Something about that bothered her too. She couldn't think what.

The long tables were laden down with brightly glowing tea lights and bowls of food. Everything had a rich, loving feeling, golden in the surrounding blackness. Yuki dropped out of the conversation and peered out the windows. The night was too thick to see into, and that bothered her. She glanced around the room. What made her so uneasy?

And then she saw.

xxxxxxx

Tommi opened the thick wooden door, stepping lightly onto the thick scarlet rug. The bookshelves around him loomed down towards him. Across from him, sitting in his maroon and black chair and staring at Tommi over his large wooden desk, Sir Harvey Gillian Frost was making the youth shift with discomfort. The Dean pulled at the cuffs of his dark blue suit. "Tommi," he purred, "I trust you left that darling little Torchic outside?"

Tommi nodded and stared at the floor. He knew what was coming next. "I'm glad," the Dean murmured, "You've performed spectacularly, Tommi. Spectacularly," he promised, and then pushed a slim manila folder across the desk with two slender fingers. "Are you ready?"

Tommi nodded. Behind him, the door slowly glided shut, closing with a muffled, final click. Oh yes, Tommi thought. He knew what was coming next.

xxxxxxx

Nathan was staring at the door where Grace had disappeared. She'd been gone too long. He felt like he was betraying her, the way he was just sitting there and not doing anything to help. He clicked his fingers at his Haunter, but it was muffled by the bandages on his hands. He sighed and picked at them idly, standing up. The girls were engaged in their chattering. Davion was the only one to notice his apparent want for departure. Without any source of explanation, the gorgeous youth stood up as well, tucking his crutches under his arms. Ginji sat on his shoulders while Jared curled around his feet. Nathan smiled. He would need a fire pokemon to see, but he didn't really understand why Davion felt the need to accompany him.

Davion got up because he thought Nathan wanted someone to go with, but he didn't know where they were going or why. It didn't really matter. He had his pokemon. That was about all he required. Of course, when they had tried to take the pokemon back after his loss, he'd bitten people, but after someone explained the situation to him, he'd calmed down instantly. And besides. It wasn't like he had rabies or something. The girl didn't have to scream that much. It wasn't as much blood as she had made it out to be.

"Alright," Nathan murmured to the girls, "Be right back," despite his doubt that anyone was listening. Of course they weren't. They were engaged in a discussion of the metaphysical representation of the path to self-actualization and whether self-efficacy could ever be achieved if the first of Maslow's requirements were not obtained. This confused Nathan only for a second. Weren't girls supposed to talk about shoes or something? He peered at them as he waited for Davion to untangle himself from the chairs. Yuki was the only one not talking. Something about the way she looked unsettled him, but before he could address the issue, Davion tottered away.

"Be right back," Nathan promised again, if only to hear the words echo in his ears.

xxxxxxx

She paused, her fingers over the keys, her nails red against their whiteness. She stared at the scars on the back of her hands. They were ugly and fresh, like new snow. The burns were the worst, but she couldn't stop now. It was just getting good. Beside her, she heard the door open and close quietly, and too quickly he was beside her. He smelled like evergreens and cobwebs and dusk and harmony. She didn't look up to meet his face, only pretended to be typing away, even though she was only writing the same thing over and over again. He leaned forwards and put his elbows on her neat desk, pulling at his sleeves. "Good," he purred, "I see that you're working. The boy had been taken care of. Everything's arranged. I'll need you to make the announcement," he told her, and she repressed the shudder that ran down her spine. Her perfect red lips parted for an instant, as if to reply, but no sound came out. Of course no sound came out. She didn't know why she tried.

He pulled the manila folder out of nowhere and placed it on her desk before pulling himself back to his full height. She wouldn't look, she promised, she wouldn't, she wouldn't, she wouldn't.

She glanced up and regretted it. She knew instantly looking up had been a mistake. What she saw made every part of her body dance with vicious rejection and horror. She hoped he hadn't realized the brief pausing in her typing. If he did, he made no mention of it, slipping back into his office in his silent way. She glanced down at the folder and hated what she had to do. She put her hands over where he'd left fingerprints in blood. It wasn't his, she knew. Of course it wasn't.

She looked back to her screen. Over and over and over it said the same thing.

_There is no freedom at Frost. There is no freedom at Frost. There is no –_

From behind the door, she heard the scream and shivers ran down her spine.

xxxxxxx

Nathan and Davion made their silent way across the campus to the nurse's office. Nathan peered at the white building, wondering how he would find the two in such a large place. Davion, beside him, suddenly stiffened and crutched away, towards a different building entirely. Nathan sighed. "Hey," he called, and then shook his head, jogging after the surprisingly nimble cripple. Davion wrestled the door open, and suddenly Nathan heard it. Someone was screaming. The two boys rushed through the hallways, following the sound of the voice, until they turned a corner and there she was.

Tears were streaking down her face. Nathan remembers that. He remembers the way her dark eyes looked up with such dull abandon, the way that she was kneeling beside her friend's twitching body, the way she pulled her hand away from her abdomen and all Nathan saw was blood, sweet blood.

Grace looked up and in a voice like an empty coffin, cracked, "Help me," and then Nathan remembers nothing at all.

X-X

**A.N: Sorry this was late! I know I usually update on Thursdays (which is wierd, but whatever) but Thursday was my birthday (and Canada Day, by the way), so, excuse. Anyway, here it is.**

**Thank you, those of you who reviewed. You know who you are. You know I love you. I say it every time I write a chapter :) You guys make me want to write, because I know someone is reading. So. **

**A lot of characters do not get named in this chapter, probably because they were taken out by upperclassmen ninjas. This does not mean I don't love your character. I love everyone's character. They'll be back next chapter, promise.  
**

**Ah, I do have a question: as you may have noticed, the writing is quickly becoming pretty dark. While there are no swears, and all violence is only implied, I don't know if I should change the rating to T because it's getting all teenager-y. I am pretty sure later chapters will be more of the light-hearted banter I'd written before, which is what causes my distress. *worry worry* what if I'm corrupting someone or something?**

**I think that's it. Happy Independence Day, America, and happy 4th of July to the rest of you - just cause you're from a different country doesn't mean you shouldn't enjoy the 4th too. :) I hope you liked this installment of the Frost Experiment, and I look forwards to your imput.**

**Take care.  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**A.N: As always, feel free to submit a character, any character. **

X-X

The night tucked into his lungs like poison joy. He shoved his hands in his pockets to warm them as the sky clouded again, masking the stars with a thick grey cloak. The waning moon showed its crescent through the mist, but it offered little light in ubiquitous darkness. He smiled a little to himself, watching the streak of orange light at his feet. He followed Blaze's trail loyally, his eyes slicing into the quick obsidian. The Riolu at his side clung to his pants, twisting its head to look up at his owner. The three of them made a slow process across the grass, Ike's head spinning with thoughts. Something about the night put him on edge. His mind clicked through images of the cafeteria he'd left behind. Too many freshmen had been darting their eyes around the room, checking over their shoulders, trailing off in their conversations. Something was wrong, and everyone knew it. It was in the air.

Restless, he slipped his thin pokegear from his pocket. The touch device didn't get reception up in the mountains, but the music on it calmed him. He idly shook it to get it to shuffle, and closed his eyes momentarily as "Scene Change" by The White Tie Affair began blasting in his ears. He slid it back into its hiding place, his head down. Around his face, his shaggy brown hair highlighted his dark eyes. They reflected the speed of his mind: in constant motion. He didn't know where Blaze was going, but his Growlithe had caught a scent and was following it with a particular urgency that Ike knew better than to question. The little fire pokemon lit a path in the grass, his svelte body hunched forwards in the efforts of his stalking. Ike's mind was twirling like lost souls, twitching though useless information and spare unsolved problems.

Shadows like snares flicked though his head. Irritably, his brain snatched at pieces of the puzzle, clicking through the useless debris that he had unintentionally picked up. The dinner had started off with such happiness. He tried to figure out the spot when the conversations had slowed, when one by one people had started sending unnerved glances around them. Something had caused it. He closed his eyes again, letting the music in his ears drown out the constant swirling, if only for an instant.

Then, like a signal against the sky, he knew. The puzzle came together in his hands. That girl – the one in all black. She had left first, hadn't she? Her and that boy, the one that clearly had at least two broken ribs. She'd noticed the injury too, Ike knew. It was the way she looked at her charge: with calculating understanding. The two of them had been the first to go. Ike peered at his Growlithe. Blaze was leading him towards the nurse's office, which, the youth figured, was where the pair had disappeared. He looked up, peering around him, and instantly the ghosts of the past appeared in front of his eyes.

Two people created from his memory stood against the blackness, their glowing green figures simple lines against impossibility. Ike glanced at them, knowing what he was seeing was his brain working on overdrive again, walking through the puzzle in order to solve it. He watched as the couple, laughing, walk past him, their spectral trail glistening in the darkness. He felt his mind whir in the background, clicking through pictures before selecting the next people to leave. Two boys, one on crutches, the other one with a strong darkness in him. Blaze streaked through them, oblivious, dissipating their image like mist. Something caused the fire pokemon to speed up, and he knew his partner too well to stop him. He slung the Riolu onto his back and set off after the Growlithe, his lean figure falling easily into running. Meanwhile, his brain set the cafeteria around him in peridot ink, showing him the way the others had started to get agitated after the two boys had left. That had been when Growlithe had picked up a scent trail and set after it like a bullet. The cafeteria dissolved and was replaced by the original couple. Something about that girl was not right. The way she had supported her friend was too medical – she had dealt with broken ribs before. He peered at her blurry green outline. She had been too light on her feet as well. She put the majority of her weight on the ball of her foot and rolled through every step with acute precision. The boy had been too calm, given his injuries. Those two, Ike knew, were yet another empty space in the expanding puzzle.

The nurse's office gleamed its beacon purity into the darkness. Blaze sat outside the glass door, waiting for his owner, swishing his tail against the copper tiles beneath his feet. Ike tipped his head towards his pokemon, yanking open the entry and slipping inside, his Growlithe darting under him, bolting down a hallway with evident abandon. Ike pulled a face and trotted to the nurse presiding at the desk. She didn't give him a second look, just waved him through, saying, "Yeah, everyone's upstairs already. What took you so long?"

Ike just ducked his head, trying to look sheepish. He followed his pokemon, his skin prickling with adamant distrust. Something was wrong with this building, but he couldn't focus on it, his mind too busy balancing memorizing the path he was taking as well as making an evaluation of the medical facility. It was clean, chrome, copper. Every so often, a large potted plant would tower to the side of the hallway, and something about that seemed ironic to Ike. Growlithe took him up stairs and down hallways until they encountered a tall boy lounging against a door, his hand in his grey hair. Absently, Ike took note of the numbers on the door: C106.

He turned off his music and pulled his headphones from his ear, wrapping them around the slim device. Yawning lazily, he slid it back into his pocket, looking at the upperclassmen. The older boy looked up abruptly, his tawny eyes flashing. "What are you doing here?" Tommi asked harshly, pulling himself to his full height. A fresh bruise marked his left eye, shading it slightly. Ike peered at him and then gave him one of his most winning smiles. "Sorry," he said, making his voice chocolate, "It's Blaze. He's…opinionated," the freshman supplied. Tommi relaxed visibly, his right arm clutching the opposite as if it might fall off. The older boy gave a sheepish smile, flicking his hair away from his eyes. "Naw, man, my fault. Didn't mean to snap at ya, but you're not part of the orientation team. I thought you were one of _his_ people. Speaking of which, you are…?" Tommi trailed off, waiting for the answer. Ike gazed at him for a second. When the boy wasn't making heartbreaking speeches, he sounded pretty normal. He was shaking, though, slightly, and the way he held himself spoke of multiple injuries. The younger boy smiled and held out a hand. "Ike," he offered, and then shoved his palm back into his pocket. Blaze was already making a friend in Tommi's little Torchic. Like goes to like, Ike thought, before refocusing.

He nodded to the door. "What's in there?" Ike asked, trying for nonchalant while his brain tried to figure out which part of the puzzle he was solving. Tommi shook his head sadly. "You don't want to know," he promised, flicking his eyes to the side. Ike nodded as if that answer sated him. There was a brief pause before the younger boy shrugged, "So where's the rest of the freshmen?"

The change in Tommi was so instant and heartbreaking that Ike pulled back a little bit. Sometimes he had trouble noticing when he crossed a line, but the look that plastered the older boy's face was too obvious. It was loathing, in its pure, untouched form. It was hatred. Ike knew that look all too well: it resonated deep in his heart under blankets of sapphire knowledge. It mirrored torn paper and strewn stuffing and broken glasses. It reflected empty books and broken dreams and worthlessness and bodies by the side of the road and perfect nails raking sweet crimson glory across pale white faces and twisting honey hair and one cruel father and a pair of sad blue eyes watching everything walk away and bitter bitter bitter hopelessness.

As quick as it came, the storm departed. Tommi looked away and shrugged, his face back to his normal nonchalance. "Oh, you know," he yawned, "Places. Rocking out, perhaps? I certainly hope no country music is harmed in the process," he said, lifting one shoulder noncommittally. He sighed and nodded his head towards the large window at the end of the hallway. "You should get going," he said, twitching his head towards the door behind him. Ike watched the movement and cocked his head to the side, peering at the older boy. Even though he'd heard the upperclassman perfectly, he asked, "What?"

Tommi stared at him, his light brown eyes boring into the freshman. "I _said,_ you had better get going, if you're going to find your friends," he repeated, bringing out the last words in a slow drawl. Then, with pronounced slowness, his flicked his hair away from his eyes, towards the door he was leaning against. "Since you asked," Tommi said suddenly, "I find several rooms in here, just like this one, are adequate for rocking out in," he said, his posture lazy but his eyes steady with purpose. Ike dipped his head, acknowledging the hint, before setting off down the hallway. The puzzle filled in with a quiet click. Tommi had told him that the freshmen were being held in the building, he knew, but something stopped him from saying where exactly. Ike's purpose was to find the rest of the rooms to see if he could get into one. Something wasn't right, he knew, but clearly the tawny-eyed boy couldn't speak of it.

Behind him, after a slight pause, Tommi called after him, "If I was you," he said softly, and Ike turned to look at him. "If I was you," the grey-haired boy continued, "I wouldn't look for them," he admitted, "Because there is always something you love more than your friends."

Ike frowned. Tommi's voice had pulled in a tone that was laced with a certain animalistic anger and woe that set the freshman's skin to crawling. The writer was looking away, darkness shadowing his face.

"There is always something you love more than your life," Tommi continued, "And they _will_ find it," he promised, a sick smile painting his face, "And torture you with it until you can't breathe anymore. Don't think you'll be any different," he hissed, "Because trust me, we all have our price. Don't think it would stop too. You're good until your body stops working," he growled. He paused and laughed a little, his slim shoulders shaking, "But at least you will be free."

Ike dipped his head in acknowledgement and set off again, promising himself he wouldn't get caught in whatever traps Tommi talked of. He _would_ be different, he promised himself. Already he was working through the future in his head, like steps in a chess game, one two three moves until checkmate.

Tommi watched his back as he disappeared down the stairs, his pokemon in tow. The upperclassman ruffled Trophy's head, smiling wanly. Under his breath, he started to hum a familiar song. He sang it every day. "I pledge my loyalty undying to the Dean of Frost, whom I will serve faithfully, no matter what the cost," he hummed, and let out a dry laugh, hating the words that echoed from his mouth. He sank to the floor and put his hand in his hair, staring at the ceiling.

"I love you," he whispered, speaking as if the world could hear and voices travelled on the wind, as if the words could reach the hearts of those they were intended to, as if phrases could leave the boundaries of the Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented, carried on fairy wings straight out and into the air.

Tommi laughed again. He knew better. Nothing could escape Frost. Not even love.

xxxxxxx

Mika opened his eyes wearily. His head hurt. He groaned and adjusted to the light in his eyes, shifting. He was, he realized, tied to a chair. That was fine, he thought, since schools tied their freshmen to chairs all the time. Sure, why not? And besides, it wasn't like he had places to be. Except maybe in bed. Although, he pondered, it probably wasn't strictly safe to sleep after repeated blunt force trauma to his head. Something about concussions, he knew, said "just say no" to sleeping.

He yawned and blinked. A nurse was facing away from him, leaning over a cart and muttering. He coughed, the international symbol for "I'm awake now, will you please move out of my face?" or so he hoped. She jumped and spun around, holding a scalpel threateningly in her hand.

Mika rolled his eyes. "Alright, make it quick," he growled, and exposed his neck. Hey, if a nurse cut him, it couldn't be that bad, right? Wasn't there that whole Hippocratic Oath or something? He wondered if she was going to use that scalpel to tattoo a gang sign or something on him. Maybe the Dark Mark. That, he thought idly, would actually be pretty cool.

She shook her head. "How are you awake?" she breathed, and he shrugged. Something moved in his peripheral vision, and then he heard a familiar sound. It was so funny, he thought, as his vision blurred, because the sound was like shattering glass, but higher. You would never know it was his skull.

But hey, he mused blearily as he slipped into unconsciousness again, it wasn't like he had places to be.

xxxxxxx

When Nathan came to his senses, he was in the hospital, sitting in a chic white chair and staring at his hands. They were covered in blood. It ran up his arms and coated his body like a beautiful ruby tattoo.

When had that happened?

xxxxxxx

It was the dream again.

It started the same as always: the little girl was cutting carrots in her kitchen, humming, shaking her honey hair away from her face. In her fingers, the knife felt right and strong, like vivid steel. The girl was making a salad, something nice and light, something her brunette counterpart would like. Already she could hear the girl outside of the door, her laughter dancing like light into the house. The little honey-haired one squealed with joy and dropped everything, just to get a glimpse of that brunette angel. With tiny, quick footsteps, she made her way outside, just in time to see the black van pull up behind that black-clad body, behind that head of chocolate hair.

The little girl tried to scream a warning, but no sound came out. People spilled like liquid from the vehicle, their shapes ever changing. But no, the brunette was laughing and leaning forwards to catch the little girl in her arms, oblivious, before with a burst of white powder and a crack and one brilliant flash of light they shot her pretty angel face with carefree apathy. The little girl knew it was her fault. It was very simple. They had shot the brunette, they had coated the little girl in angel blood, they had carted away the darkly dressed body, but it was the little girl's fault for not being good, for not being nice, for running away, for sleeping, for crying, for being anything but what they needed her to be.

And then it shifted, as it always did, to watch as the little girl lunged towards a cliff. They had taken one of the only people she had ever loved in the entire world and ended an angel's life with stunning dismissal. Hands stopped her from jumping every time, chaining her to eternal punishment. The rest of the dream was spent running, running, running, until her lungs burst. She would never be safe, either. They had killed a brown-haired angel, and they were coming for the little girl next. Running, running, running, while brilliant scarlet sorrow iced her veins into nothingness. Running, running, running, while her footsteps echoed in her empty honey head.

And then it ended the way it always did: they found the little girl cowering in a corner and raised their guns like glasses.

She woke up, stifling the scream that echoed from her lips, keeping her eyes closed. Automatically she banished the dream. There was no one after her. There was no black van. There were no killers. There was no cliff, no running, no real memories at all. No blanket of blood, trailing down her fingertips. She was too old now, too old. The little girl with honey hair didn't exist anymore. She only had to look in the mirror to know that. There was her proof right there, in her reflection.

But no, waking was worse. In waking, the brunette walked into reality. In waking, the angel's death was different, quieter. The little girl, in her new grown up body, with her new dark hair, only had to look in the mirror to be reminded of it. There was the departed, right there, right in her reflection.

Oh, she thought, running mirrors through her mind, How wonderful it is to be a shadow to the dead. How wonderful indeed.

xxxxxxx

Rhyme shifted uncomfortably, playing with the bracelets on his wrist. The room was empty, but he knew he would only be alone for so long. In his head, he ticked off the minutes. The desk he was standing in front of made his heart pound with something close to fear, in that delicious grey divide between abject loathing and swift horror.

Behind him, the door clicked and the Dean strode in, wiping his hands off on a pretty blue handkerchief. Rhyme watched as the Dean threw it down on the desk, the cloth twirling like a falling fairy. It settled gently, and it was all the photographer could look at. Everything else was etched with that slim black strip in his heart, like the breaks between photographs.

Into his ears, the river-smooth voice of the Dean resounded, "Rhyme Genesis. A pleasure," he rumbled and Rhyme wanted nothing so much as to take that silk tie he was wearing and wrap it around the throat of Sir Harvey Gillian Frost until he was dead. Fair was fair. The Dean was oblivious to this and simply purred, "I trust your mother is doing well?"

Rhyme felt his blood run cold, but didn't say anything. "I heard Alice got an 'A' on her art project," the Dean mused, and Rhyme felt his face split with a vicious snarl. He couldn't hold it back. He stared at the handkerchief as if it was the most important thing in the world. If he didn't make eye contact, maybe he wouldn't jump across the desk and destroy everything. If Rhyme just shut up, everything would be fine. He stared at the blue cloth and addressed it directly.

"It's all accounted for, just like you asked," he told the kerchief, although the words were intended for the Dean, "All of the money. Everything is set," he reported, as images in photography flashed across his mind. He wanted to kill the Dean. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to run away and go back to being happy and playful and uncaring. But no.

"Wonderful, wonderful," the Dean mused, "I'll see that your mother's doctors hear of this," he promised, and Rhyme had to leave before he lunged at that stupid manic and wrenched his heart from his body. The little boy slipped away, closing the door behind him, panting from the effort of staying calm and not giving in to the fierce protective urges that roiled under his skin.

Behind her desk, the young secretary looked up, surprised. She paused in her typing and sent a frightened look towards the large wooden door. Silently, with one painted fingernail, she gestured him over. She smiled and slid him the familiar manila folder with his instructions inside. He frowned at her, a strange feeling of betrayal coming across him. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but as usual, no sound came out. She shook her head with frustration, and then pulled out a form filling it in quickly. She slid it over to him quickly and then motioned for him to leave. He slid it into the folder and slipped away, out of the large, horrible building, out onto the grass. He scurried to the dorms, the darkness a cloak around him. Only when he was safe in his room did he dare a look at the paper the secretary had given him. In her flowing, pretty handwriting, she had scrawled something in the margin.

_Nico can help you._

Rhyme stared at it, and for the first time in a long time, he felt real, true hope.

xxxxxxx

Yuki grabbed Izzy's arm and tugged her friend upwards, flicking her eyes to the window. "I think Grace is in trouble," she hissed, "I think some attacked her," and instantly the blonde was on her feet.

Izzy grabbed Kratch, clicked her tongue for her pokemon, and set for the door. No one was hurting any of her friends. Not on her watch.

xxxxxxx

Caen watched the three girls get up, and she heaved a sigh. Why was nothing simple? She stood too, and slid after them. She was really too patient. Was anyone else making sure the freshmen didn't get hurt? No. She deserved the "Most Responsible" award, if that existed.

She spun her Rhydon's pokeball in her palm, watching the way the red and white twisted. With her impeccable quiet, she followed the trio, surprised by the pace they set. That Izzy girl put her on edge. Something was wrong with that one. The power rolling off her shoulders at the moment was a little too dangerous.

But then, Caen knew, it's the ones who step quietly that should concern you. They are the ones that stay just to listen to your coffin click closed. She grinned, and with her practiced silence, stalked them into the night.

xxxxxxx

When Orson opened his eyes, tied to a chair, he just nodded. He felt a body behind him, and tried to figure out if he was in trouble. The nurse to the side of him was tapping the air bubbles out of a filled syringe. That wasn't so bad, if Orson didn't expect that sweet shiny needle was for him.

"Oh, _fu-_" Sage began, behind Orson, before the nurse jabbed his arm and pushed in the copper fluid. Orson felt the taller boy slump. He watched the nurse as she picked up another shot of that thin tawny fluid.

"Well, miss," he said, as she tapped out the bubbles again, "I'm sure I haven't had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, but I'm sure we'll get along just fine," he promised, and she gave him a brilliant smile, wrapping her silver-blue fingernails around the shot.

"I'm sure we will," she agreed, before there was a pressure in his left shoulder and then there was nothing except blackness.

xxxxxxx

Tarrow slid next to Davion, who was watching Nathan with a sort of detached caring that the false wizard thought was kind of cute. "Well, we're all very worried," the blue-robed boy promised. "I am, at least. I had adopted Grace, you know," he announced, but the oak-eyed boy just shrugged. Tarrow was nonplussed. "However, I have the reassurance of my Tarot cards. I suppose you would like a reading? Very simple, only three cards: past, present, future. No pain! How about it, my loquacious fellow?"

Davion just shrugged one shoulder and shifted on his crutches. "Whatever," the model muttered, but he watched the wizard shuffle the deck with a keen energy that actually made Tarrow sort of uncomfortable. To get away, he gestured to the underclassmen, bringing him over to a table in the waiting room. Davion didn't sit down across him, as most people did, but just hovered on his crutches.

Tarrow smiled and set to doing what he was best at. He cleared his throat and set down the pile, spreading his fingers out across the places the three cards belonged. He hovered his hand over the space to his far right. "The past," he said, then moved to the left a space, "The present," he explained, and then hovered in the space to his far left, closest to the deck, "And the future," he grinned, and then flipped the first card to it's position in the past. "Death," he breathed, realized he had pulled up two cards. He took it as a sign and flipped over the second card in the past, "The Star," he read, and his brows furrowed. The two together did not bode well. He looked up to Davion. While the reading was for his adopted daughter, Grace, it was entirely possible that the model's history was getting in the way. It sometimes happened like that. Restlessly, he flipped the center card into place. "The Emperor," he said, and grinned. "Known as a father figure. That would be me," he said, and suddenly spikes were crawling into his skin. He knew what that was. That was the feeling he got before a true reading. That was the feeling he got when he knew the cards were right. That was the feeling that warned of disaster.

He flipped the last card into the future and felt the blood freeze in his body. Over The Lovers, someone had taped a new card on top their faces. An upside-down ace of spades. Tarrow knew what that meant.

"Death."

xxxxxxx

Click, and the camera started recording again.

Tobi groaned and smacked his tongue, instantly rejecting the idea that he was tied to a chair. Too many horror movies to count flicked through his head. He wondered if it was going to be more like "Saw" or "The Ring." He supposed it didn't really matter. Dead was dead, regardless of who the director was. Although, when he thought about it, he rather hoped his situation was more like "Saw." He always had seen the way out of the rooms. It wouldn't be too hard.

Behind him he could feel the body heat of a large boy. No one else was in the room. The other boy stirred restlessly. "Well," Tobi said, "I suppose we should figure out how to get out of here," he mumbled, his words slightly slurred. That was not, he figured, a good sign, was it? He briefly understood Jarel's response, but the camera in his head was flickering, memories dispersing like ghosts.

Oh no, Tobi thought, that was not a good sign at all.

xxxxxxx

When Will opened his eyes, he wished he had kept them closed. Next to him, Grace's curvy body was laid out, facing away from him, and he was pretty sure she was dead. Every part of him hurt. All he could remember was a rooftop and a single blade in the darkness, and then nothing. He looked down. He was whole, at least, from what he could discern. At least his ribs didn't hurt completely anymore, he realized. That was a plus.

A nurse materialized in front of his face. He'd been so intent on his friend that he hadn't seen the slender blonde approach. She smiled and brushed his hair from his face. "There you are," she murmured, "I thought we'd lost you," she admitted, and then set to detaching Will from the wires and tubes he hadn't realized he'd been trapped in. Grace didn't have anything connecting to her body. She was dead.

"You're very lucky," the nurse was saying, "Even a few years ago, you would still be hurt. But ever since we've had the technology for quickly healing pokemon, we've been focused on the human application," she grinned, "And you've got the good fortune to experience how far we've come. Of course, Frost is on the cutting edge of this science," she admitted, and smiled, helping him out of bed. Will had no idea what she was talking about. Everything still hurt, regardless of what she was saying. The nurse grimaced a little at the look on his face. "You do have a few broken bones, though, and while with our medicine they'll heal quickly, you're still going to have to live with a few broken ribs and a broken leg, but that cast will be off before you know it," she sang, and Will darted his eyes to the very obvious lime green cast. Why hadn't he noticed that? He knew why he hadn't: because he was staring at the blood-soaked bed where her chocolate hair spilled across the white pillow like her essence leaving the world.

The nurse followed his eyes and frowned a little. "Your friend, I'm afraid, was not as lucky as you were," she said quietly, and Will felt a very strange numb settle in. Grace was dead. Grace was gone. Grace, pretty, sweet, curious Grace. She was gone.

He nodded to her as she handed him a pair of crutches and tried to thank her, but no sound came out. She seemed to understand anyway, and showed him out of the Intensive Care Unit, out of the large glass doors, out into the waiting room where six people waited for news. Izzy saw him first and darted for him, wrapping her arms around him. Will would have enjoyed the sensation of being hugged by a pretty girl a lot more if his head wasn't full of torn pictures.

Izzy pulled back and grinned at Yuki. "She knew you guys were in trouble. She saw your pokemon and knew something happened. They're not allowed in the waiting room, but the nurse at the front desk has them. What happened?"

At that, Will was assailed with a series of questions he couldn't answer. He just started talking because there was nothing else to do, no way else to remember the girl that bled for him. His friends fell silent around him, quelled by his soft tone.

"It was my fault," he whispered, "She was taking me to the nurse. I saw movement on top of the roof of the building across from here and I made her check it out. She said it wasn't a good idea, but I was too curious. She agreed and had helped me all the way up the stairs when we were attacked. I didn't see whoever it was, but Grace did. She fought back. They pulled a knife. They had driven us towards the edge of the roof. When they stabbed her, she lost her footing. I leaped off the roof and tried to put myself between her and the ground, but I guess it didn't help," he said, and gave a little shrug. "She died anyway." It was all his fault. If he hadn't gotten hurt, they would have stayed in the cafeteria, safe. If he was less curious, if he had caught sight of the attacker, if he'd been quicker, she would be alive.

"_What_," Izzy breathed, her face going pale. It was all her fault. She'd _known_, hadn't she? When they left she'd felt strange, and she should have done something about it. She knew better than to question her instincts. She should have gone with her friend. Who was she to let a girl and her injured friend out alone into the night? And now Grace was gone.

It was all Yuki's fault. If she had been quicker to address her feeling of discomfort, if she had not hesitated when she'd caught sight of the pokemon, if she had just for once in her life betrayed her oath for the life of another person, maybe there would be less woe in the room. Maybe Grace would be alive.

Kratch knew it was her fault. If she'd left with her friends earlier, then maybe she could have done something. She was pretty agile. She could have helped Grace. She could have done something. She could have pulled Grace right out of the casket, for all she knew, but no, she just had to sit and eat her pasta.

Davion shifted on his crutches and stared at the door. He'd heard her screams first, but it had been Nathan that had carried the pair in. If he wasn't broken, he could have taken the girl. It would have been quicker. But no, with only one of the boys in working condition, the writer had willingly saddled himself with more than he should have been able to carry. What good was he when he couldn't help anyone? When he couldn't even help someone to live?

Tarrow was fixated on the deck in front of him. It was all his fault. How dare he mess with things like the future. If he had just left things where they were, if he had just put the pack away and never touched them again, then he would have never drawn the Death card. He would have never seen the vandalized future. It was solely his fault for naming it. He'd brought it into reality. He slid to the glass door between the waiting room and where his adopted daughter lay dead. He faced the motley crew. All the talent in the world ran through their veins while he was good for nothing.

Nathan just stared at his hands. All he could think was that the last thing Grace had given him was her blood. It coated him. He wondered if it would keep him warm or turn on him like life did. He could see her head tilt back in his mind. He could see her death. That image burned at him like paper.

"Wassa matter?" a familiar voice slurred, and then Tarrow, without thinking, was scooping her up and twirling her around, hugging her bandaged body and praising every spirit he could think of.

She laughed and shrieked, squirming to be let down. "Daddy," she chided, "I am too broken for these antics," she said, and slipped to the ground, hitting the copper tiles with her same quiet control. She tilted her head to the side. "Why does everyone look like somebody died?" Grace asked, and ran her hand through her hair worriedly.

Instantly she was surrounded by her friends. She giggled as they fired words at her, but she focused on the ones that twirled from Yuki's lips. "Of course I'm not dead," she stated, "Will misunderstood. The nurse meant I wouldn't heal as quickly as he would since I've got a different kind of injury," she sang, and ran her hand through the photographer's hair, grinning. "Sorry he scared you," she murmured, watching as Nathan woodenly stood up and silently padded over to her. The crowd parted a little for him. Something was not right with that boy.

He reached out and put one hand on her face. She laughed and patted it. He twisted his head to the side and observed, "You're real," as if she might fade into nothingness. Grace shook her head violently. "Oh no," she promised, "None of us is real. You have to get used to that, you know. We're all figments of someone's imagination," she explained, but then he was hugging her, wrapping her into his body too tightly for her wounds but not tightly enough to convince the writer she wasn't gone.

Izzy lightheartedly pulled him off. "Now then," she stated, still shaking but hiding it well, "When did you and Tarrow become related?" Izzy asked, looping her arm around her friend's. Yuki gleefully repeated the motion on Grace's other side, and then pulled Kratch along too. Grace shrugged. "Since, like, two days ago. I say it all the time, but whenever we're together, none of you guys are around, or if I'm with you, he's off doing whatever it is fathers do," she stated, and then grinned. "I feel like sleep is in order," she admitted, and pulled the line towards the doors. Oh yes. If nothing else, she deserved sleep. She retrieved Tabbot and Serafina from the woman behind the desk, and Will followed her example. Tabbot just licked her passively while Serafina jumped around excitedly as if this was the first time she'd seen her owner in years.

Tarrow slid along after them, keeping his face hidden from the nurse behind the desk. If she knew he was out with underclassmen instead of upstairs, he'd be in more trouble than he could handle. But Grace was his daughter, even if that relationship was only a joke. Behind him, he felt the two boys on crutches hurry to catch up, Nathan in tow.

The writer was still staring at his hands. He'd had her, right there, her warm body against his, he'd touched her, he'd felt how real she was, but it didn't work in his mind. There was too much blood. He'd seen it, in his head, he'd seen her death. It hadn't been hard. It looked something like one thin body slowly fading into bones, but this time the way his heart dropped spoke of a different sense of attachment. This time, his heart didn't have far to fall. It was cradled in sticky black threads, nestled deep inside the beast's chest. Whatever was slinking inside of his brain did not allow for feeling. Nathan didn't mind. The solid numb was so much better than the pain her false death had promised.

By the time they had reached the dorms, Will was quite sick of his crutches. "Seriously, who invented these?" he groaned, seeing the two girls to their room. The other two had been dropped off three doors down, only persuaded to leave when Grace practically fell asleep on top of them. She had been awake for more than twenty-four hours now, if she didn't include the brief period of time when she had been unconscious. It wasn't ideal for her. Will thought it was sort of cute, the way her eyes became slowly darker as she came closer to falling asleep. He knew that was a trick of the light – she was just looking down more, and her eyelashes were shading her eyes, but it made an image appear in his mind. He knew what photograph would go along with this, but he didn't mention it.

Izzy helped her friend into the room, smiling a little. "Are you sure you guys will be fine alone?" she asked worriedly, the two girls pausing in the doorway, letting their pokemon slide in first. Will waggled his eyebrows. "Oh don't you worry about these two," he purred, dropping his voice into a sultry tone before flicking his hair in a pronounced way.

The two laughed and slipped into the room, closing the door behind them. Grace's eyes fell to her bed, and the smile instantly slipped off her face. Izzy playfully pushed her aside, but when she saw the look on her friend's face, her brow knit with worry. She followed the brunette's gaze to the bed. "What's the matter?" Izzy breathed, uncertain. Grace padded quietly to the side of her bed. Curled around each other where two pokemon she knew quite well.

Under her feet, Seraphina let out a small whine, knowing the smell of the two foreign pokemon. Tabbot pressed himself against her leg, his eyes focused on the bed. Izzy cautiously peered over her friend's shoulder and let out a little sigh of relief. "It's just a Luxray and an Electrike," she said, smiling, before she walked over to the other side of the bed and rubbed the Electrike's ears. "Don't be scared of them. They're both very friendly species, if you're kind to them," she said, a soft smile on her face. She looked up. Grace had not moved.

"I know," the brunette croaked, "My sister had them while we were growing up," she stated, her gaze fixated on the pair. Izzy beamed, ruffling the Luxray's fur, "Aw, that's so sweet! Your sister sent you her pokemon to remind you of her," she grinned, looking up to the dark eyes of her roommate. Grace stared at her dully.

"My sister is dead."

X-X

**A.N: I have three minutes to go before this is late, but since it's before midnight, technically this is on time? Sorry for the week break, I was on vacation. I did get super tan, though, if you're curious.**

**The new character in this chapter is:**

**Ike Rend: missingo**

**Oh goodness I have a whole slew of people to thank, the readers, the reviewers, the people who like country music and put up with me making fun of it. Love, love, love, love. I'd make a long speech about how fantastic you all are, but then I thought you'd much prefer a chapter on time for once. So. Surprise?  
**

**I hope you liked the first chapter to shamelessly promote one of the bands I like. Shamelessness looks ok on paper, though.**

**Take care.  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**A.N: Feel free to submit a character still. I love new characters :)**

X-X

It wasn't that it was wrong. It was a little more than wrong. It was a little more than horrible, too, but that wasn't what the matter was.

No, he thought, the matter was more that he was almost fine with it. It was so simple: take the folder, carry the contents to a certain person, report back. Problem solved. Easy. Quick, too, if he could just get his feet moving, if he could just take those first few steps, if he could just walk away from the office that loomed behind him. And maybe the folder held things like doctor's notes, or a request for some nice soup at lunch time. Maybe it held love and peace and just being ok with. That was it.

He shook his head. He was using a standard ego defense mechanism. Denial. For the sake of calming himself down, he muttered the definition, "When an individual mentally or verbally argues against the existence of an anxiety-inducing stimulus," he murmured, and then took one step. Then two. Then three. Under his feet, his lithe Houndour wove a glittering orange trail, like infinity against the grass. Four steps. Five.

It was hard finding her. She blended with the scenery, smoke against the sky. She raised one eyebrow while he approached. "Thompson," she purred, "Look who got taken in," she stated, and then buffed her nails against her shirt. "Up to four tally marks?"

He looked away. It was his senior year. Just nine and a half months. And then he was free. If he kept his head down and his mouth shut, maybe the world wouldn't close in on him. Maybe it would stop the slow compression of less air, less air, less air. He drew a breath. Nine and a half months. Impossible.

Caen held out her hand, waiting for the folder she knew was coming. Her silver fingernails glinted against the glow Thompson's Benjy provided. The little Houndour was panting by his feet, his wet pink tongue lolling out of his soft orange maw. Caen bounced her hand impatiently. "Come on," she snapped, "I don't have all day. Contrary to what Dean dearest thinks, I occasionally do things with my life," she hissed. Thompson handed the file over, waiting for Arceus to smite him for his horrible deeds. But no. It changed hands easily, like silk, like forever, like one two three years days hours left before his heart stopped beating its quiet tattoo. She grinned, snapped her gum, and disappeared like thoughts into the night.

Oh misery, he thought, forgive me for giving in to your vacant soft allure.

xxxxxxxx

Dawn. Crack, slip, bones at the ready.

When had he gotten here?

xxxxxxxx

There was too much blood. She knew that. When she looked down, her whole world fell apart like butterscotch candy. It spilled red rose petals down, down, down. All across the pretty white fabric. One bright glint of metal, and then nothing. It hadn't hurt at first. But then it spread wildfire all over her. She couldn't get out of it. She couldn't escape it. Wound, wound, gape open to the world.

She opened her eyes. Across from her, a pretty girl with honey hair. She couldn't remember if she was awake or not. But of course. Of course. That's why it hurt so much. Such pretty cotton candy pain. It made patterns dance in front of her eyes. Pretty, pretty, pretty.

Blue eyes opened to meet hers, and a sudden frown crossed the young face. "Grace?" the girl with honey hair asked, all concern. All worry. All of the past in tumbling locks of golden hair like grass in the sunlight. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Faintly, "Grace? You're crying," the past said, calling out sweet, sweet veracity.

Was she? Is that why diamonds stung in her eyes? Is that why her vision blurred so horribly? Is that why her breath caught and these horrible sharp sobs ricocheted out of her ribs?

She curled up and cried the world away, letting pretty, pretty, pretty pain swallow her like honey.

xxxxxxxx

It was sort of funny, the way the blood coated his fingers. Just like love. It wouldn't wash off. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, taking red red red lily petals off his crawling skin. It hurt. It burned. It dug into his palms like glass.

He hunched over the black basin of the sink, his slim figure shaking and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, blearily removing all evidence of her from his raw palms. How long had he been here? One, two, three hours days years, just washing off sweet scarlet sanguine sorrow. The water was pretty pink horror with blood. It was her blood. It was his blood. It was the blood of the world and the air and it left bodies with oh such quick delight.

He paused and examined his hands. A long time ago, he had stopped scouring off her blood and started scouring at his own. Such thin skin he had, to wash off and down that drain. Under his eyes, his palms swirled red faucet dripping. It gaped raw wound pain under the dim lights. All of him flowed with the water, down, down, down, out and into the world.

And it was good.

xxxxxxxx

No, the voice was wrong. That was the problem. The voice was entirely wrong.

Yuki stared at the ceiling and watched the sun creep in, a slim stealthy intruder. Around her head, voices clambered for attention. None of them were the voice she needed. It haunted her, hung on her. She waited for the moment when the sun would creep into her mind, too, and show her what she had been missing.

She started to sing under her breath, just a little lullaby her mother had taught her. But the words were mixed up. They sounded like iron, like someone had slipped in and whispered them in her ear while she was sleeping. Without knowing why, her tune switched towards a song she'd never heard.

"I pledge my loyalty undying to the Dean of Frost, whom I will serve faithfully, no matter what the cost," she sang, and then choked on her words. When had she learned anything like that? Instantly she felt the tug in her mind.

It was something about the voice. If only she could remember.

xxxxxxx

It wasn't that bad. He'd been in worse places before. He'd been in more pain before, too. This was easy. This was ok.

Although, Sage mused, something should be done about the way the world was spinning. If anything, it was just really annoying.

This is why, he thought, you don't do drugs.

xxxxxxxx

When he came to his senses, he was standing in front of the door to the kitchen. Orson grinned. He'd always been a nervous eater. He was certainly nervous. And definitely hungry.

Yes, Orson was confused, starving, and in pain, but his mamma had raised him right. He rolled up his sleeves and pushed open the door.

"Alright then, put me to work."

xxxxxxx

He poked his roommate, trying to get the stirring lump of clothes to respond. He stared at Thompson's immobile body and yawned. It was too early for this madness. He tucked a strand of his inky hair back over his ear.

"Thompson," he sang, "Thompy-cakes. Little Tommy Blue," he hummed, his amber eyes dancing. He watched the bundle move and grinned his sharp smile. "I will sexually harass you like a squirrel climbing a tree," he chirped, patting the body idly. Instantly Thompson was on his feet, staggering from his head rush. He glowered at his roommate.

"Mate," he sighed, "There has _got_ to be another way to do that," he murmured, sitting back down on his bed, closing his deep blue eyes. "You could kill a man like that, Felix," he chided lazily, but his friend showed no guilt in his light brown eyes, and instead just sat down on the sheets next to him, stretching out a bottle of pills. Thompson pulled a face. Necessity was the bane of his existence.

That was their little secret, shared between two pairs of eyes that twisted colors: one pair such a light brown they were amber, one pair such a deep blue that they were indigo. One orange pill bottle. One pink. One blue.

Thompson grudgingly knocked one back without water, holding out his hand for the next. Felix deftly switched it out while saying, "I see you were out late last night, like a bird on the wing. My little Tommy. All growed up," he sang, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively while handing over the blue pill. That was all Thompson had to take in the mornings, and Felix got him up every day to do it on time, but the number was set to increase soon. Maybe it would be five next time. Six. Seven.

Thompson rolled his eyes and crunched the blue pill between his teeth. It tasted like childhood chalk: all broken and used. "Yes, I went out and saw a girl, you big bully," he half-growled playfully, running his tongue over his teeth, trying to rid the taste from his mouth. Felix gave him one of those smiles: all sharp teeth and cleverness. You had to be careful about Felix, he knew. The other boy just didn't get which lines should not be crossed. It made him a potentially deadly enemy and a strong ally. Yes. He was a much better ally.

"Oh, look at you, smug as a rug. What was her name? Also, does she have a sister?" Felix grinned, amber eyes all aglow. This was normal, right now, right for this instant, just two senior boys, just two people that had been best friends since freshmen year. No. Thompson knew he had to ruin that, take that away and replace it with stark sorrow. They didn't keep secrets from one another because they kept secrets from the rest of the world.

"It was Caen," he murmured, and instantly the smile dropped off his friend's face. It was replaced with cold calculation. Thompson looked away. "I'm up to four," he admitted quietly, and dragged his eyes back to his roommate, who was absentmindedly holding his left shoulder. Cold, cold calculation hummed from his amber eyes.

"Well then," the boy who was half beast growled, "We need to do something about that, don't we?"

xxxxxxx

Crack, click, muscles back in action.

God, he hated walking. But it was better than being strapped to a chair. He didn't remember how he got here. He didn't care. He needed a nap. Some food. Some pain meds. Around and around his head swirled, while around and around Zulu circled his feet.

"You know something?" Mika slurred to the Umbreon, "I really, _really_ hate this school."

xxxxxxx

Bright, bright, bright.

He was lying down but it felt like flying.

Bright, bright, bright.

Black.

xxxxxxx

Oh river, slow river, wind your way home.

No. It wasn't that easy.

xxxxxxx

"Look," she said passively, "It's not that I don't like your singing. I do. It's just… you keep pausing to mutter something. It's just very strange, is all," Kratch tried to explain, while Yuki stared at her. The shorter girl waved away the plea.

"I can't remember what her voice sounded like," she murmured, and then it was back to singing and muttering, singing and muttering.

Kratch bit her lip and gently removed her Luxio and Skitty from the bed so she could make it. It was best just to ride these things out. Problems had a tendency to solve themselves, if you let them.

Suddenly there was silence behind her, followed by a deep, frightened breath from her roommate. Kratch flicked her sheets out in a white wave and threw a questioning look over one shoulder.

"I know the voice," Yuki hissed, "I know the voice because I've heard it before. A long time ago. But it couldn't be her. She disappeared. I mean. It couldn't," she babbled, her eyes wide. Kratch sighed and tucked in the corners of the sheet.

"If you feel like explaining at any point, let me know," she grinned, retrieving another blanket from the floor. Yuki was pacing behind her, her pokemon making the trip with her. Back and forth, back and forth. Kratch just watched the blanket soar up then down. Her friend would talk when she was ready.

"It can't be her. She's supposed to be dead."

xxxxxxx

Sleep meant dreaming, and dreaming meant remembering. It flicked in front of his face and settled in his chest. The pain kept him awake. That was fine. If he just shoved everything to a very far, trembling corner, then everything would be alright. He would be ok. That was all there was to it: he just couldn't think too hard.

_Watching Will makes Lucario tired,_ his pokemon admitted, peeking over the edge of the bed. There. That was ok, Will thought, letting the smooth voice roll calm over him. Stability. Yes. Everything was fine. Nothing hurt.

He reached out and ruffled his partner's fur. "Hey," he croaked, "Did you see where Nathan got to?" Will asked, yawning. He should get up. He hadn't actually slept at all, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered and nothing hurt. Yes. But Nathan had slipped out of the room the night before, and had yet to return. It wasn't that strange, though, for the writer, Will figured, shrugging a little.

_Broken friend belong Will is in washing room,_ Lucario informed him, struggling to describe Nathan. Will grinned and threw back the covers, ignoring the sweet slice of pain through his entire body. He reached for his crutches and then hobbled towards the door of the bathroom, his pokemon stalking his every move.

Will leaned his head in. Blood stained everything. Nathan was standing over the sink, and he was smiling. He looked up, his steel eyes bright with some sick light. "Good morning, Will, Lucario. I trust you slept well?" Nathan asked, with such a light, happy tone that his roommate waited for the horror. It didn't come. Instantly something clicked inside of the photographer. That wasn't right. He should be diving for the sink, stopping his friend from removing any more skin. But no. He just stood there and felt strangely at ease with the actions before him. He felt Lucario subtly scan his thoughts. And then, the answer, the truth, the explanation behind the growing throttling numb.

_Will is broken too._

xxxxxxxx_  
_

Quick river, slick river, run your way right back to me.

He didn't say anything to his friend. Not, "I'm so happy you're alive," or, "Thank god you're ok," or, "I've been looking for you." Nothing. He just picked up a cantaloupe and started slicing.

Orson grinned. "Nice to see you too, my dear friend. On the matter of waking up in the middle of a field with scaldin' pain runnin' down one of my arms: I have no idea what happened. By the looks of your stoic nature, I would dare to say the same happened to you. Well, my fine feathered friend, let me tell you, once these fruits are properly distributed, I will see what we can do about it. Perhaps a complaint to management is in order. Nevertheless," he paused and looked up, grinning, "I must say I am awfully happy to see you."

His friend didn't mince words. He just sliced downwards in one quick, clean cut, straight through the tough rind. That was it: just one lethal stroke. Then it was on to planning.

xxxxxxx

Oh bright star. Bright, bright, bright.

"I really hope you aren't dead."

Echo, echo, echo. It rattled around his head like breaking glass. Smooth but sharp. His mouth opened to reply, but no sound came out. Oh snow, fall for me.

"Oh Arceus."

Bright echo, bright echo.

"You know something? I ought to get paid for this kind of nonsense. But no. Nobody ever thinks to pay the quiet ones. I'm telling you right now, I'm a regular, every-day superhero. I deserve a badge or something."

Bright, bright, bright echo.

Black.

xxxxxxx

The money was laid out in front of him like a river of lies. And it was so easy to count: one hundred from a hungry family. Three thousand from an orphan. Sixteen hundred from… He couldn't think about it. It hurt too badly.

The cons weren't that bad, he'd conned before, and had gotten used to the guilt, but this was something new. This was a sign of his cowardice, right in front of him. Oh, he'd gotten the money, all right. But it hadn't been fair. It had been a scam. And then, like ice falling down, he had to hand it off. Who knew what the Dean did with it.

Rhyme sighed and carefully folded it into slim blue rubber bands in stacks of thousands. Then it was into a briefcase and under his arm. He wasn't going to leave that much money alone. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. It had been a late night. He padded wearily to the door, his Vulpix trotting along after him.

"We're running the twenties for some quick cash and then on to the widow, ok, Lilian? How does that sound?" Rhyme cooed, and she glanced up at him and chirped her love. She had no idea what was going on. But that was ok. Just one more secret.

Across the grass, into a taxicab, and then on to stealing money from the witless. He almost laughed at how easy it was, watching the school slide away. He could get out at the bottom of the mountain, turn his back, never look back. He could risk everything and just scamper until his feet gave out. It wouldn't be too hard. He'd lived in rougher times than these before, and the briefcase on the seat next to him promised a safe life, if only for a little while. It would be easy. He could run the con for himself for a little while, and loan shark on the side. Nothing too big. He'd stay under the radar. Yes. It would be easy.

He laughed again. The world just didn't work like that.

xxxxxxx

Mika stumbled into his room. He deserved a nap, an explanation, and maybe some hot cocoa. Zulu burst out hissing and spitting, but that was pretty much normal for the little ball of fury. And then: fur, in his face.

Mika thrashed and wrestled the thing off of his body, flinging it as far away from him as it would go. It landed on his roommate's bed with a soft cry of defeat. Davion instantly scooped it up and held it tight, glaring at Mika.

"_What_ in the _name_ of all that is _holy_ is _that_?" Mika exploded, pointing one finger and making the sign of the devil. The Zangoose in his roommate's arms lifted one sad ruby eye to the offender. It hadn't meant anything by the attack. It just didn't like Mika very much.

Davion looked down and then up, eyeing the boy in partial armor as if the model wasn't sure the other boy was sane. "Jared," he stated dully, as if maybe Mika wasn't all there. The boy in black blanched, the scar over his eye darkening.

"Get it away from me," he stated simply, "Get it away from me now." He briefly considered swinging the long sword he had on his back for effect, but there was probably something in the student handbook that disagreed with that idea. Instead he bared his teeth, Zulu like a little black flame under him.

Davion didn't move. He just went back to flipping through a magazine. He was trying to figure out which page he got on. He had heard it was somewhere in the middle, but the fashion tabloid was pretty thick.

"You know something?" Mika asked into the silence. Davion looked up questioningly, so his roommate continued, "I really hate my life," he informed the world, and then flopped onto his bed and clutched his arm. It felt like it was going to fall off. He needed sympathy. Or congratulations on evidentially making it out of a horrible trap while unconscious. Or maybe a hug.

The model shrugged noncommittally and murmured, "Whatever." This was the sort of thing Mika had to put up with. He deserved an award. Or maybe that hug he wanted.

xxxxxxx

Tarrow stared at his roommate and shrugged. "I won't tell her if you won't," he stated, and shuffled the deck. "It would only hurt her to know."

Tommi stared at the blade in his hand. "It was an accident," he murmured. Tarrow just shrugged. They'd been friends for some time. Sometimes silence was the best option. Tommi looked up and stated blandly, "I heard Nico got a package to her," he muttered.

Tarrow looked up and smiled. "And so it begins."

xxxxxxx

Ike stood over the body and very scientifically examined it by poking it to see if it would respond. It did, a low, confused murmur.

Caen leaned against the wall, watching Ike's strategic examination. "He got a concussion and then they put him on drugs. It probably wasn't a good combination," she yawned. The boy was lucky she brought him to his dorm. She deserved a really good sandwich for her efforts. But no. Ike was just standing there, staring at his roommate with shock.

Ike was actually assessing for the cranial damage which she had mentioned and was debating a broken spine. Of course, Tobi would be in a lot of trouble if he'd been moved with a spinal injury, but Caen had meant well, at least. Slowly and carefully, he removed his friend's shirt, trying not to think it was too weird. He needed to examine the damage and the skin around it, was all. He quickly undid the buttons and sent up a prayer to Arceus that his shirt-removing shenanigans would not leave the room. It would ruin his reputation.

Tobi's slim body seemed fine, minus some thick purple bruises, but his skin showed none of the blue sheen of asphyxiation or any of the physical signs of permanent spinal injury. Ike breathed a sigh of relief and assessed for signs of shock. There weren't any, but it was better to be safe. Ike ripped off his own shirt and stuffed it under his friend's feet. He needed eight to ten inches of elevation, he noted. It was close enough.

"Woah, there, boy, do you need me to leave?" Caen purred. Actually she sort of understood what Ike was up to. He sent her a sharp glare and returned to the body. She held up her hands passively. She had been joking. No one ever understood it when she joked.

Ike felt for broken bones, flicking though his mind for any sort of premise on a concussion or overdose. He'd read the medical textbooks, of course, but it was different in practice. He laid one hand on his friend's left shoulder and instantly Tobi's eyes were open and he was crying out. Ike jerked his palm back, surprised, and padded to the other side of the bed to see the matter more clearly.

A long shimmering black mark had been etched into Tobi's tanned skin. A tally mark. Caen, behind Ike, whistled. "Oh dear. I wonder if all those poor winning losers have a mark just like that one. Well, then, I suppose your friend likely is hurting in his right ankle too," she murmured, but her voice had taken on a sort of maternal understanding that Ike felt was entirely out of character. He nevertheless darted to the other side of the bed and examined Tobi's leg. A thick red scar ran horizontally along the ankle, and Tobi growled when Ike touched it.

"Uh oh," Caen purred, staring at the tally mark, "Looks like your friend has four to go before he's gone," she sang, and then disappeared without explanation.

xxxxxxx

There was only pain and bright, brilliant shapes of colors.

"Tobi?"

Echo. It hurt his head. Something was struggling inside of his brain.

"Tobi, if you can hear me, I need to ask you how you got out of the nurse's office."

Everything was sharp sapphire bright. Everything cut like diamonds.

"Tobi?"

The echoes were so faint now. So faint and so loud at the same time.

"Tobi?"

Echo echo echo. Bright echo bright echo oh sweet star.

Black.

X-X

**A.N: Sorry this is so late! We had a very bad storm and our power was knocked out. When they reconnected it, the power was all strange and wouldn't stay on longer than thirty minutes. I must have rewritten parts of this forty times. It was very sad. Since this is Wednesday, we're just going to pretend that I updated this week early, because it does actually take me some time to write these chapters. So...uh... happy early surprise? See you Thursday?**

**The two characters that made a debut were created by:**

**Thompson Baltimore: Lucariofan**  
**Felix Masque: Tyltalis**

**I love every person who reviews, and all the people who read. Thank you all very, very much. I do my best to make the story enjoyable, and I like knowing people do actually follow Frost. It does my heart good. :)**

**I hope you enjoyed this week's (and last week's, I guess) installment of the story.**

**Take care.  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**A.N: This week is the last call for teachers, so if you've had one in mind for awhile but didn't submit it, please do. I'd love to incorporate them.** :)

X-X

Abandon.

Abashed.

Abating.

In his mind, he listed words by their length. He was up to seven letters. His head hurt. His hands hurt. The words helped. Ability. Abjured. Abolish.

He was setting the tables in the dining room and trying to figure out what the world was coming to. The tally mark tattoo that graced his left shoulder burned at him. He and Orson had matching marks. They figured that the other freshmen had also been marked, as if they had failed some sort of test, and it was there for the world to see. Jarel had been a part of too many sports activities to doubt that the tally marks were actually strike marks instead. Two more, they figured, and they were out. Absorbs. Abstain. Abusive.

It didn't make any sense: they had both woken up in the middle of a field, separated from human contact, mind all awhirl with a drugged sense of confusion. Slowly their senses had returned to them, but the confusion had lingered, a sour aftertaste in their minds. Why would they just be let go like that? Like they'd been tagged, like they'd been branded. No one tried to steal branded merchandise, Jarel knew. He was no longer worth taking. Actuary. Actives. Acrylic.

His mind felt like wet paint, used and slowly drying. People had started showing up for breakfast, and most of them wore the same expression, full of lonely desolation. They had been marked too, whether they discovered it in the shower or while they got changed or had it pointed out to them. And all the people eating had their pokemon with them, sending their furry partners guilty looks and sneaking them food. The upperclassmen had returned their strongest bargaining chip. Jarel could feel the weight of his own pokemon in his pocket, safely tucked into their balls so that they wouldn't get fur in the food. Already Jarel's brain was balancing the "b" seven letter words while trying to write the story to the finish. It hurt, but the pain was good. It woke him up, brought him back to his body. Babbled. Backing. Badness.

In the book, the hero wins over the superhuman villain, using words and the power of good. In life, there was no hero because no one was willing to stand up for themselves, the villain was all too human, and the power of good was only the power of dreams. But then, Jarel smiled, perhaps this wasn't life. Perhaps this was story too. It was up to him, then, how it ended. He just had to write it better than how it was going. Restlessly he dug his free hand into his pants for a pen and a slip of paper. His knuckles brushed his Larvitar's ball. He could practically hear Jenna's call in his head. Gently he slipped her out of the safety of his pocket, running his fingers across the smooth metal surface. Something stood out to him, he realized, and his brain clicked and whirred with hyper focus.

The ball was half red, half white. Someone had tampered with it, and he could tell automatically. He knew because the color in front of his eyes screamed red without trying. He stared at it and slowly backed into the kitchen. The change would have been infinitesimal to every other person, impossible to detect. But Jarel was colorblind. He shouldn't have been able to tell the color of the ball at all. The brighter color was a distinction that was important to people who could only tell red and green apart on certain occasions. Their eyes were trained to look for it, look for the subtle distinctions between two colors that sometimes looked like one.

Someone had marked Jenna too, and had done it in a way that should have been completely secret. Jarel found Orson and tugged the chef outside, thrusting the ball into his face. "They changed it," he growled, staring at his roommate. "They made it brighter," he barked. Orson stared at him, unsure for a moment, before peering at the ball with a rapt expression. Slowly the realization dawned on him as well.

"My dear friend, I dare say you have uncovered yet another mystery. I don't suppose we'll be getting any answers, but knowledge is power. I say we stick to phase one of the plan. It shouldn't be too hard. Find out all we can. Whoever marked us had to use tattoo ink that wouldn't smudge. They didn't even bother covering it. And there's the whole matter of it burning like a wildfire. I would dare say that was just cruel of them, using this shiny stuff. I wonder if the paint used on us was likewise distributed to our partner's abodes. I dare say someone should know something, don't you?" Orson said, drifting back inside, putting grapes into a bowl. He popped one in his mouth and slid out his own pokeball, his bright eyes suddenly darkening with concentration.

Jarel circled the tables. The first step of their plan was easy: listen and learn. Already the room was filled with murmurings of distrust, of shared pain, of rejoined friendships. He passed a boy and heard the quiet hush that spoke of the tattoos. So many conspiracy theories, so little time. And not one of them made any sense. As he walked around, handing out fruit bowls, he heard it all: it was all a joke and they'd be sent home in a few days; the tattoos were not permanent so it didn't matter; they had been marked by aliens. The truth was that no one knew. They were all uncomfortable with their uncertainty. The tattoos were proof they were different than one half of the class, and no one knew if they were different in a way that was good or bad.

Unbidden, a word sprang into his head that was both a multiple of seven as well as one of the longest words in the English language that had no repeating letters. Jarel laughed at the way it clanged in his head, screaming its name at him:

_Troublemakings. _

Troublemakings indeed.

xxxxxxx

Rhyme paused outside of the store and grinned at Lilian with that detached calm he always felt before performing a con. He needed the quick cash, and running the twenties was as easy as breathing. He coughed into his hand importantly and pushed open the door, humming to the same note as the door chime. He flitted down the aisles, his Vulpix in tow, his song and smile making sure he was noticed.

The girl at the counter looked up at him, bored. She yawned and flicked her auburn hair over one shoulder, resting her slim body against the counter. She looked like a dancer, but was doodling on a scrap piece of paper. An artist. Rhyme smiled. The artists were easy. He danced up to her and put on one of the smiles that made him look like a little kid: all joy and brilliance. She stared at him, waiting. He pointed to a pack of gum in front of him, all laid out, begging for the con. "How much for that?" Rhyme asked, voice sweet and light and smiling. She bent over the counter and peered at what he was pointing at.

"A dollar fifty," she replied, and he put it on the counter. Step one. He grinned and thrust his hands into his pockets, humming and frowning as if he was concentrating. Slowly he removed a twenty from the depths of his cargo pants and gave her a very sheepish smile, as if he'd already committed a felony.

"I only have a twenty. I'm _so_ sorry. I'm going to have to make you break it," he pouted, and she shook her hair and waved it away. He had walked into the story knowing he only had a twenty on him. It was part of the con. Step two.

"It's ok," she smiled. She liked the boy in front of her. He made her think of bunnies and innocence. He was sort of adorable. "Actually, I've had to break fifties before," she admitted, "For things that cost less than ten."

Rhyme shook his head like there was nothing for it while she handed him his change. Step three. He paused while putting it in his pocket and pointed to the necklace she was wearing. "That's very pretty," he stated, staring at it like he was entranced. The smile on her face grew and she touched the glimmering piece of jewelry.

"Thank you," she purred, "My boyfriend gave it to me. He's a little like you, actually," she said, grinning. He gave her an encouraging smile, willing her to continue. Go on, he thought, talk about it. She did, just as everyone else had done before her. She chattered and arranged things importantly, and he made noises that were appropriate for the conversation. Step four. It was almost over.

Suddenly he smacked his head and she stopped talking. "Oh my goodness," he breathed, "Guess what I just found? Change. Can I have my twenty back?" Rhyme asked, all sheepish and guilty because that was what was needed now. She paused, realized he was talking about the gum, and nodded happily, talking about her boyfriend again. He could break-dance, she was saying, while she handed him the twenty and took the change. Her boyfriend was nice and sweet and perfect for her. She looked up, waiting for the smile of approval. Rhyme was already gone, the door chime sounding in her silent loneliness.

"Ready for the widow trick?" the con artist asked his Vulpix. She stood from where she'd been left outside of the store, shaking off her copper fur and yawning. The widow trick made his heart hurt, but there was nothing for it. Some things were more important than guilt.

The four tally marks on his left arm were a constant reminder of that. They burned suddenly, although it had been a long while since he'd gotten the newest one. He flinched, remembering the pain of the new tattoo. Of course, at the time, each had been uniquely worth it. Sometimes breaking the rules meant staying alive. Rhyme copied Lilian's yawn and hailed a taxi. A long week was ahead. A bait-and-switch was set up two days from then, and until that point he needed to run the widow trick for extra cash.

He slid into the backseat of the yellow car, Lilian jumping up behind him, curling her body inwards for a nice nap. Rhyme shook out the newspaper he had stolen and went straight for the obituaries. It was time to find his mark.

xxxxxxx

Izzy held Grace until the brunette's body stopped quaking with sobs. The honey-haired girl rocked her friend back and forth and let the tears spill down her shoulder. Eventually it was silent and they both pulled back, smiling wanly at each other.

"I could have died," Grace croaked, "I could have died," she repeated, and looked ready to cry again. Izzy pulled her in for another hug and murmured sympathies. Under Grace's bed, four pokemon prowled like guards, waiting, waiting, waiting.

And then, it was out in the open. "My sister drowned," Grace said, pulling away and fixing her eyes on the ceiling. Izzy shook her head and reached out one hand. They'd discussed this: Grace didn't need to tell her roommate anything, not until she was feeling better and not panicking from being stabbed in the middle of the night. After the discovery of the two pokemon, Izzy had promptly swooped down and taken care of everything, putting the shell-shocked brunette into bed, tucking her in, humming a quiet lullaby. Everything had been fine until this morning, when something had broken inside of the shorter girl, something horrible. The blonde had seen it coming. No normal person lived through being stabbed and was fine with it. That was just the way things worked.

Grace had been quieted for the moment, but her eyes were instead following the path of the Luxray and Electrike, watching them as if they were going to disappear. One hand absently tracked the bandages down her stomach, and her mouth opened again, her eyes distant. "It was about five years ago. She was sixteen, almost seventeen. I was eleven. It was after our father…went away again. I know the house was mostly empty except for our stepmother. I remember that one day I went to go wake her up so we could talk but her bed was empty, her room ransacked. Everyone said she ran away," Grace paused and lifted one shoulder, watching the two creatures that reminded her of a distant time. "I didn't believe it. She wouldn't leave me like that. She wouldn't. We had promises. And she left Jasper and Talon behind," she added, gesturing towards the two pokemon. She shook her head and continued, "They found her jacket in a river but they never found her body. Jasper and Talon disappeared about three days after that. I always thought our stepmother had taken them. She tried to remove any hint of my sister from the house. It was like she was trying to remind me I was alone now," the brunette trailed off, fiddling with her hands as if she was unsure what to do. Her mind was racing. Someone had to know about Jasper and Talon. Someone close to her.

Suddenly Grace let out a bark of laughter. "Actually," she admitted, "We had this one crazy promise: she was going to become a really successful breeder, and then she was going to come for me and save me. She promised to send Talon along with a present, and that's how I'd know it was her," she admitted, reaching down and running her hands along the Luxray's back. A distant smile played along her lips, and Izzy got the feeling that it was better not to disturb the moment. "My sister's name was Ashley," Grace whispered, her voice starting to crack.

Izzy sensed her friend's sorrow and abruptly yanked her off of the bed, calling her Shiftry with her mind. The pokemon herded the others into the hallway. Grace paused before they left, snatching two spare pokeballs from her bag. She returned Talon and Jasper without much thought, as if she'd been the sole owner of her sister's pokemon for ages. She stared at the metal in her hands, and Izzy sighed, pulling her friend towards the cafeteria. "What you need," the blonde declared, "Is some serious food."

Grace smiled and shook herself, although her eyes remained dark with thought. She grinned and looped her arm around her friend's, humming while Serafina jumped up excitedly. It was normal for an instant, until they stepped outside and suddenly something flew into Tabbot, a streak of grey and black fur. The white beast tumbled backwards with the foreign object while Serafina's growl ripped through the air. Grace's hold on her friend suddenly became a panicked clutching, her heart racing.

"It's happening again," she breathed, "It's him. It's him! Oh my god. I'm going to die."

xxxxxxx

"Well," Will coughed, "This is awkward." He shuffled towards his friend and slowly pried him from the basin of the sink. Numbly he sifted through the cabinets until he found a first aid kit, stretching out the gauze bandages to wrap his roommate's arms. Nathan just stared at his bleeding palms as if he had just noticed the damage he had done to himself, his slate eyes cloudy. Will moved through some sense of obligation, but there was no meaning behind it. Everything was wrapped in solid cotton, as if he wound the gauze around his mind instead of wounds. Maybe Lucario was right. Maybe he _was_ broken. Maybe the world was not Butterfree bright. Maybe the reason everything felt so open and ugly was because he was cracked, split right up the center, a reflection with all right angles.

Nathan murmured something as Will gently shoved him towards the cafeteria. Food was a good idea, the photographer noted, although it seemed stupid at this point. He couldn't even tell if he was hungry. The pain medicine he was on blocked out everything. All of his thoughts tumbled without consequence, just more pictures burning on bright white blacktop. Will realized he should answer the brown-haired broken one, so he lifted one shoulder carefully and stated, "Oh yes, I am very fluent in mumble speak. You know, I'm actually bilingual. I was taught mumble since I was three, though it did get in the way of my artistic knitting abilities. While everyone else was out climbing trees, I was knitting them. It's sort of a gift of mine, not unlike my good looks and fantastic personality," he quipped dryly, tossing his hair in a perfect swish.

Nathan was staring at him. "Do you also like long walks on the beach?" the writer croaked, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Will grinned and waggled his eyebrows coyly, before strutting ahead girlishly. It was good to see Nathan smile again. It was like he was fulfilling his purpose. It was as if fixing someone else would save him, even when he knew it didn't work like that. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Actually," Will purred, pausing and waiting for Nathan to catch up, "My idea of a perfect date would be dinner and a movie, followed by riding bareback to the top of a mountain to watch the stars set. We would cuddle and talk about our interests while the whole world dropped away," he stated in a clipped falsetto.

"I will take that into consideration," a different voice said, and Will had to remember to smile in recognition. That was probably a bad sign, he thought, that nothing touched him anymore, that the whole world was behind a thick glass screen and he was peering in through his impenetrable camera lens.

"Tobi," Nathan greeted the arriving boy, noting the way the slim filmmaker was drooped over Ike's arms, as if he didn't quite have his strength back. Nathan just ran his hands up and down his new bandages, up and down, up and down, liking the way the pain wrapped him tight and held him close. Just like love.

Tobi offered a wry grin, but his head hurt like the devil. By the time he'd regained consciousness in the morning, most of the effects of the drugs had worn off. Now he had to get used to the whole concussion thing instead. The movies in his mind click-whirred into moving again, but one at a time, cautiously, as if every new memory would send him back into the blackness.

"We were getting munchies," Will said, and then paused as if thinking, before elaborating, "Which isn't to say we actually _had_ the munchies, because drugs are not cool or something. Anyway, I heard there are fruit bowls for breakfast. I like fruit," he noted, and then had to think about whether that statement was true. Some habit said he liked sweet things, but his brain gave no reaction. It didn't care what he liked. It didn't care what he didn't like. It didn't care about him.

Will lead his three friends towards the door, his crutches clicking in staccato. They sounded like his heart: _Broken. Broken. Broken._

Broken, broken, brilliant sun. He stepped away and out of his body, like leaving this world for the last time.

xxxxxxx

Instantly the ground under Izzy's feet warmed up. Serafina was glowing with battle power, lunging at the foreign pokemon and knocking it off of Tabbot. The Absol, instead of fighting back, leapt like thunder towards his owner, circling her, his ears back. It didn't matter what happened to him. Grace could not be hurt. She was already shivering in fear, waiting for whatever was going to happen. Her fingers wrapped around his white fur, her dark eyes staring at the fight before her.

It wasn't fair. Houndours were no where near as powerful as what Serafina was facing: a vicious, growling Mightyena. It was a question of evolution. Grace bit her lip. She hated battling. Fina loved it though, and it showed in the red and black pokemon's fur, glistening with embers. The rogue Mightyena's coat seemed to suck in the light around him. Full dark pokemon did that, Grace knew. Tab did it all the time. But there was something about watching the battle between shadows and light that made her want to cry. She couldn't stop Serafina. She'd made the Houndour a promise.

Izzy clutched her roommate's arm, sending a look to her Shiftry. If all went wrong, then she had a backup plan. She could win the battle if Serafina lost. It would only be a wound on Grace's pride. The blonde sent a look towards her broken friend. Grace's eyes were dull and distant. Izzy opened her mouth to give the orders to her pokemon, but words were already tumbling out of the brunette's mouth.

"Fina, darling, I think it's high time you evolved, don't you?" Grace whispered, and then bent down and ripped the collar off her pokemon's throat. Izzy saw what was dangling off of it: the grey-blue shine of an everstone. Immediately a growl fierce and deep and wild ripped its way out of Serafina's throat.

"Ah, Grace?" Izzy murmured, "Is that a smart idea? Aren't we not supposed to battle?" the blonde tried, but it was sort of an afterthought. She was busy canvassing the area. If anyone tried to attack them from behind, they were dead. Or at least seriously injured.

"Fina," Grace stated, ignoring her friend for an instant, "Start charging. When I give the signal, Fire Blast," she purred. Suddenly her voice was viciously dark, full of hatred and fear and the positive notion that she was going to die. Izzy shivered behind her, and tried to object. Fire Blast could hurt them, too, if Grace wasn't careful. It wasn't a smart idea with so many pokemon out on the field. Grace knew this and didn't care. No one attacked Tabbot and got away with it. _No one._

The Mightyena rushed inwards for a Quick Attack, lips pulled back in a furious snarl. Serafina waited until she heard Grace's murmur of approval, and then flame sprouted from her maw like hunger, rushing at the oncoming beast and enveloping it. His grey and black fur singed and the fire turned dull as the dark pokemon sapped the light from it. His furious howl shred through the sky as he barely managed to land, rolling to put the fire out of his fur. He was panting. Serafina was already quaking with power: the evolution was upon her.

"Don't! Don't! You win!" Grace frowned at the Mightyena. Did it just speak? "Please! Don't!"

"Uh, Grace, I don't think that's a wild Mightyena," Izzy commented, nodding towards a boy that was making his way across the grass, his eyes wide with nervousness. He tumbled towards the two girls, grinning a sheepish crooked smile. He flicked his long brown bangs out of his face, running towards them with a sort of flailing trot.

He arrived in time to see Serafina's fur start burning white. Everyone knew what that meant, and took a large step backwards. The new boy recalled his Mightyena, his eyes bright with worry, watching as Tabbot very subtly put himself between his owner and the new threat. "I'm…I'm…I'm Jason," he panted, "I see…you've met… Okami," he paused and took several deep breaths before he got himself under control. "I don't know what happened. He saw your Absol and took off. He's a little…well, he's definitely lively," the boy said, keeping one eye on Serafina. "You're evolving her?" he breathed, and Grace ducked her head. She'd been training with Fina almost as long as Tabbot, the everstone locking the Houndour in place. Fina had gone into storage the same day her morals had. Maybe it was time to bring those back too.

He held out one hand to both of them, saying, "Jason," before very subtly wiping his hands off on a napkin as if they had infected them. He didn't seem to mean anything by it, though, so the two girls let it slide. They had more pressing matters. The light off of Serafina's fur began settling in the grass, sparking with power. It skittered towards them, all the excess energy frightening and cruel. They all took another step backwards, giving the pokemon her space.

Abruptly, the light sucked inside of the tiny body, and then spilled out like a lantern from her eyes, her mouth, her paws. She gave a strangled keen of pain, her skin rippling with the change. The click of her bones growing longer was audible even from the distance. Serafina growled, her voice growing deeper and more distressed. Her body shuddered with the agonizing change, as slowly, slowly, she became something different all together. She howled in her new terrible voice, and Grace felt shivers run down her spine. Serafina was now a Houndoom. Her voice sounded like approaching death.

The brunette waited until the last sparks of white light had blinked out, and then she ran to her pokemon's heaving side. Evolution was not fun, it wasn't easy, and it was probably the most painful thing Serafina would ever go through. The newly evolved pokemon panted and dragged herself to her new paws shakily, taking the first few tentative steps in her strange body.

"Come on," Grace murmured, slipping the collar around her pokemon's neck again, "Let's get you fed," she grinned, and kissed the Houndoom on the nose. Watching the evolution was the worst thing she'd ever seen. She promptly pushed it from her mind, back behind the dam that was threatening, always threatening to explode and take her with it. The brunette looked up towards Jason and asked, "Hey, do you know if they're serving breakfast yet?"

Jason shook his head and went to look at his watch. It was missing. He frowned but then figured that he must have left it off. It didn't matter. His pokegear should be able to tell the time for him instead. He thrust his hands in his pockets, but a brief search proved that he was missing his pokegear too. His frown deepened. It was one of the slim nanotechnology ones, with the touch screen and brilliant sound. He'd worked for six months to save up for it. Maybe he had just left it in his chase for Okami. Yes, that was probably it. He shrugged towards Grace noncommittally. She sighed and dug her hands in her pocket for her own pokegear and read him the time. He stared at the device in her hands. It was the same color as his. It made him strangely lonely to look at it.

"Yeah," he told her, "They should be, at this time." He frowned again. Maybe it had fallen out of his pocket. What if someone had taken it? He looked up and watched Grace slide the device into her skinny black jeans before putting one hand on both her pokemon and stepping towards the cafeteria. Something was wrong with her, he realized. When he had first seen her, she'd been bleeding darkness into the air; much like her Absol was doing now. But now she was bright and happy, acting as if nothing had happened.

The way she moved reminded him of a wild creature: all potential energy. All contained. All beauty and light steps. And very, very dangerous. You had to watch out for the quiet ones, he knew. The quiet ones have the sharpest claws.

xxxxxxx

"She's…supposed to be dead?" Kratch drawled, raising one eyebrow. Yuki was deliciously weird on a good day, but this was sort of crossing the line. Kratch was dragging a brush through her short black hair while simultaneously pulling on her clothes. She was hungry, dead person singing or not.

Yuki shrugged and started following her roommate's lead, slowly pulling her things together for the day, whatever it was meant to bring. Maybe today they'd all get kidnapped. Again. Or maybe someone could get stabbed. Again. Or maybe they could actually go to school for once and get the hang of the class schedule and student life. That didn't seem half as likely.

"It's very simple," the singer called, while Kratch went to brush her teeth, "There was this cute little diner in my grandparent's town. We used to go there when we visited them. Really awesome food. And they allowed pokemon, so long as they kept under the table. Plus there was this waitress. She was super nice. I think her name was Cassidy? Something like that. Anyway, one day she disappeared without a trace, I mean, no trace at all. No one knew what had happened. She was, what, seventeen? Eighteen maybe? Everyone said she just ran away to become a trainer, you know, just skip high school and college or whatever. I personally think that is a stupid life choice, but it was up to her. Anyway, things only got super weirdo when another girl disappeared like six days after in the town over, in – get this - _exactly_ the same way." Yuki shivered and brushed her hair, primping a little in her hand mirror.

"The voice just sounds like hers, is all," she mused, "That voice belongs to a ghost."

xxxxxxx

Everyone waited as Tommi stepped up to the podium. The way they looked at him made his skin crawl: all betrayal and horror and hatred. He shrugged it off and grinned at them. From here on out, it was easy. The ones who had failed had been tagged, once on their skin in an obvious tattoo, and once on their ankle in a very subtle slash. It was all so clever, all so brilliant. But hey. It was time for announcements.

"Why, hello, my glittering boys and girls. I trust you all had a fun night with a nice, long sleep. Yeah, I know, some of you woke up in the middle of a field. It's not _that_ weird when you think about it. I mean, they let country music happen, don't they? Now, then, we will dispense with frivolities and bring on that which all of you dread: about two weeks of arts and crafts, trust games, bonding, and ice breaking. The schedule for the next few weeks will be distributed to all of you. Get used to how long the blocks are. That's how long the school blocks run for, too. It should be a banjo full of fun," Tommi declared, and grinned at the expression on everyone's faces. They had all expected something terrible, something that would make their skin crawl, something far worse than what they had been through.

Although, Tommi thought as he stepped off the platform, two weeks of summer camp activities was still pretty awful.

xxxxxxx

It was three days later and Sage was already done with the new turn the school had taken. Everything had become summer-paint bright, airbrushed with glitter and joy. Currently, he was forcing macaroni into some semblance of a self-portrait. He had given up on the two-dimensional and was instead gluing the hard pieces into a topographical map of his face. It was such a waste of time. Across the table, a boy in black armor was finding it hard to make the hollow pieces work as a bracelet, fumbling them onto the indigo string.

"Who? Can I ask that? _Who_ in their right minds would subject someone to this?" Mika growled, his voice echoing in his helmet. The armor was not a fan of artwork, constricting him in such a way that the pieces often shattered under his iron fingertips. When that didn't happen, he had to deal with the way it refused to stretch with his movements. Armor didn't allow for delicacy. It was there for slicing and dicing. None of this pretty sparkle girly nonsense. What exactly did he need the stupid bracelet for anyway? Everyone else was already making pictures of their faces. But _no_, Mika wasn't _allowed_ to move on. They were probably jealous of him. That made sense. The situation with the armor did bother him though. Usually art wouldn't be that hard at all to him. If the stupid pieces were made thicker, maybe he wouldn't be having such a problem.

"Shut up and finish the bracelet already," an upperclassman growled. Caen had been watching him struggle for the half hour. At first it had been funny in a kind of depressing way, but now it was just pathetic. The orange tablecloth under her fingers was scattered with macaroni as she hurried to finish the next step. After the freshmen had finished their self-portraits, they could move onto three-dimensional structures. Hers was an apple. A _really good_ apple. She was the best artist around. She didn't see why she hadn't been talent scouted for her sculpture talents. Stupid Krav Maga. How was that going to get her anywhere in her life? She could see her job application now: "Can kill you in thirty ways you've never heard of before." Yeah, that wasn't exactly going to help. But this art thing. "Can make _awesome_ happen."

"What in the name of all that is holy is _that_," Sage growled, pointing at her apple. She raised an eyebrow and picked up her masterpiece, tossing it lightly in her hands. Oh, it would hurt if she threw it. She paused. Wasn't there something in her training about not purposelessly attacking someone?

"It's an apple," she snapped, "Look at it. It's the Mona Lisa de Caen. It's my masterpiece. It's gonna get me a job one day. And you'll say, 'Oh Caen, I am starving on the streets, could you lend me some of your bountiful artist money?' But I won't. You just don't understand art. Lookit you – did I say you could make your nose stick up off the page? I did not. You just don't listen," she snarled, petting her apple.

Sage snorted through his nose and glued another piece on his picture. He sent a look towards Mika and muttered, "I'm _sure_ it's an apple. And I'm a beautiful Butterfree," he murmured conspiratorially. Mika didn't look up. There was something to be said about taming the wild macaroni. Every time he thought he had it down, it shattered in his palms like butterscotch.

"Oh, you did it now," Caen barked, and abruptly pain rocked through Sage's temple. He saw red and then he saw black. The tall girl brushed her hands together and pursed her lips at his unconscious body. She lifted one eyebrow towards Mika and stretched out one finger warningly. "I better not hear anything but praise from you stupid kids. That apple was _gorgeous._ Teach you to talk back to your upperclassmen," she muttered, stepping over Sage's body and checking on the work of the other kids at her table. They were all staring at her like she had just started dancing naked on the table.

Mika looked up, seeing the stunned faces of his fellow students. He'd gotten the bracelet together at last. It was beautiful. The best piece of art at the table. It had a wonderful pattern of colors, made out of the shades of macaroni. Maybe they were shocked at the stark wonder of his work? But instead of at him, they were all staring at Caen with something between horror and amusement.

"Wait," Mika said, confused, "What did I miss?

xxxxxxx

"Hurry _up_," Felix hissed, rubbing his hands together against the cold night. His voice was edged with that silver pattern of dangerousness. Even Thompson had to watch out when he got like this. Impatience made his temper flare.

"I'm _hurrying_," Thompson bit back, working his fingers through their little rebellion, fumbling in the darkness. "Do you got the – bloody… _get on_ – perfume?"

Felix shook his head and held up hand lotion. "She doesn't _use_ perfume, evidentially. She smells as sweet as…" he paused and peered at the label in the darkness, "Vanilla Sugar. You know, I have heard of this brand. Cucumber Melon is really much better."

"Oh for the love of Arceus, _shut up_. Do you think I _care_ about Coconut Buttercup or whatever you're going on about? We have two minutes before the drop-off, which is five minutes away. And this…stupid…thing…won't…get…_on,_" he growled. Stress was making him a regular beast of a boy, and he knew he shouldn't be so short tempered, but it turned out that arts and crafts were harder in solid darkness.

Felix wrenched it out of his grip and put it together in two seconds. Thompson sighed, helping his friend rub the lotion on it. "You know," the one with indigo eyes stated jovially as they thrust their little secret into a folder, "I made it easier for you. I did. I lined them up and everything."

His amber-eyed friend shot him a grin. "Yeah, you made the holes bigger _with your mind,_" he agreed, and then the two of them were running, running, running, trying to get where they were needed in only one minute. It was impossible, and maybe that was why Felix was in such a good mood.

Alternatively, Thompson thought, it could be that they were the forefront of a very small revolution. Felix loved all war. It made him feel real.

xxxxxxx

"No, Davion, you can't swim until three days from now. You know that," Thompson sighed, running his hands through his hair. It was the fourth day of the new summer camp activities, and the model did not like being left out of pretty much everything he loved doing. No one let him dance. No one let him swim. No one let him stand for more than two minutes before they were chattering about his leg and whether he should be standing on it.

Davion was teetering on his crutches, lurking over the pool like a really gorgeous ghost.

"Oh, for the love of – just jump in, why don't you?" the psychologist muttered angrily. He could see the desire in the model's eyes. The boy apparently heard the murmur, and looked up with glimmering hope. Thompson clicked his tongue angrily and rolled his eyes. "I didn't _mean_ it, you daft thing," he hissed.

The dancer looked away, frowning. "Whatever," he muttered, tossing his hair back from his oak eyes. Oh, he was going to swim. Whether they liked it or not.

xxxxxxx

"Miss Grace?"

Grace's head jerked up. It was the fifth day of Frost camp. They were working on paintings. She actually welcomed the change in the school. Her sister's pokemon remained in their balls, where she didn't have to think about them. As each day passed, she had slowly leaked back into normalcy. She was still jumpy, though, and no artist liked being disturbed while they were working.

Serafina let out a low growl, but didn't get up from where she had been resting with Tabbot. Ever since her evolution, Grace had worked with the Houndoom, making sure Serafina was used to her new body. Grace didn't like battling, but it wasn't that bad when it was with friends like Izzy. But lately it had been wearing on the poor thing, and Grace wasn't one to push matters very far. Not since a very dark place in her memory.

"Uh," the brunette said wittingly, flashing her eyes around for the sound of the voice, "Did anyone else hear that?"

Tarrow, who was presiding over the classroom, looked up too. He shook his head, but then tilted it to one side, a sweet smile coming across his face. "Of course, my daughter, for a very, _very_ slight fee, I could will the Tarot into telling me why exactly you're hearing voices. Of course, for my daughter I would be willing to lower the price to the strictly affordable –"

Grace held up one paint-covered hand and stared at the doorway. She got up with as much silence as she could, padding shakily to the hallway. The other kids in her class watched her go, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. Except for Tarrow, she didn't know anyone in the room. Everyone else was off singing or filming or tacking a banana to a tree.

She peered down the hallway, willing the voice to speak again. Silence reigned. She took a few tentative steps, peering out of the large windows towards the fountain at the center of the campus. A figure was leaning against the great basin, staring at her. She gasped and ducked out of sight before very quietly making her way out of the small building and into the plaza.

"Miss Grace," the figure said, and the brunette recognized his outfit. He was a porter. He ducked his head apologetically and held out two collars. "These fell off your Electrike and Luxray, I believe," he stated, shoving them into her palm. She shook her head.

"There's no way," she stated, trying to give them back, "Jasper and Talon haven't been out of their balls in forever. They can't be mine," she tried, but the porter just took a step away from her, giving her a wide grin while staying just outside of her reach.

"My name?" he purred, acting as if he hadn't heard her at all, "Nico. Thank you very much for asking. Anyway, you know where to find me," he stated, and then stepped into the shadows. Grace called after him, but he was gone. Her brow furrowed. There was something very strange about that man.

Restless, she returned to her class. All she could think about were the blue and orange collars in her pocket. She knew for a fact that Jasper and Talon had no collars when they had shown up. And yet there they were, with the metal name tags and everything.

Someone else knew about her sister. Grace couldn't tell if that was wonderful or the worst news in a very long time.

xxxxxxxx

It hurt so much.

And maybe that was why it was just so easy.

xxxxxxx

Night was like breathing again. It came in two hours. She just had to survive through two hours.

Edgily she shifted through her inbox. A thick folder was sitting in the middle. Her breath caught. She wasn't sure how she'd missed it coming in. But then, she figured, it wasn't that strange. Those boys were too stealthy for their own good. It was just something you picked up at Frost: how not to die.

She grabbed the folder and scurried to the wide door that separated her from her overlord. She rapped on it softly with her knuckles, half hoping he wouldn't reply. She shifted in her stilettos, waiting for his horrible voice.

"Enter, Sylvia," he called lazily, and she flinched. In no way was her name Sylvia, but whatever made him happy. He took everything from her. Even her identity. He owned her so completely that if he wanted her name to be Spartacus, it would be.

She scuttled inside his oppressive office, crossing the carpet with her tight, clipped movements. She didn't look up. Looking up was too aggressive. She rested the folder on his desk and waited for his dismissal. She watched as his fingers slipped inside and tugged out what was so desperately important to him. As soon as she saw what it was, she couldn't hide her shock. _That?_ He had taken control of two boys for _that?_

"Wonderful," he whispered, "It's wonderful." He paused and inhaled deeply. She just stared at the carpet. "It still smells like her, too," the Dean chuckled, and she saw him slip it on his wrist. "You know something, Sylvia? I am so delighted about this present that I think I'll…why… I don't quite remember being this happy. How would you celebrate, my dear?"

She didn't even bother opening her mouth. It was pointless. There was one hour, fifty-two minutes and twenty-six seconds left until night. Opening her mouth would have been stupid and would have cost her more than she could have afforded.

"You're right!" the Dean laughed, "I don't know why I didn't think of it! You know, that's a very clever idea, Sylvia. I haven't spilled blood in quite long enough, I don't think, and there's a long line of people needing to be punished. Darling, I could kiss you," he hummed, "But that would mean touching that hideousness you call a face. You may depart, you ugly little girl. And next time, wear a shorter skirt before talking to me," he chortled. She felt her cheeks burn as she backed out of the room. Already her outfit was horribly showy for her. But if it kept her alive, she'd flash her legs until forever.

Inside of her head, images spun. He would have hit her usually. He actually was in a good mood, for once, and what had been inside that folder was the cause for it. It didn't make any sense. The Dean didn't waste his contacts for things like that. It just didn't add up at all. She could see it in her mind as it dangled from his fingers.

A single macaroni bracelet, tied with indigo string.

X-X

**A.N: Next week the school part of "Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented" actually begins. It was going to be this chapter, but then it was way too long. So instead a nice little half-filler chapter I hope you didn't hate too much. But since school starts next week, the call for teachers will be up. Thank you, all of you who submitted one. Saving the day yet again :)**

**I mention a con called "the twenties" in this chapter. Since it's a real con (just as all cons following this will be) I'm pretty sure I'm legally obliged to tell you "Don't try this at home." Cons are felonies, even if run by super cute boys like Rhyme.**

**The character that showed up in this chapter was:**

**Jason Cyran: TT749**

**Also, a heads up: I am pretty sure that Chapter Fourteen will be the last chapter I accept characters for. I know sometimes you consider making a character but there's way too much effort involved or you've got something else to do or whatever, so I'm saying this because now you know you have three weeks left of procrastination. After Chapter Fourteen, no characters will be accepted unless it's a really really fantastic exception. :) (But I'm a huge softy, so pretty much one "please" and I'll roll over.)**

**Also next week will likely be the debut of some new formatting. Don't worry. It's not going to change Frost much at all.**

**Annnnd hugs out to my homies. You reviewing people make my day every day. If you stopped reviewing, come back. I miss you ): Also I get nervous you stopped reading because you hate the story and then I get all worried and then I get a review from one of the awesome every-chapter people and everything is ok again.**

**Alright, thank you for putting up with this note. I hope you enjoyed a chapter that was mostly just lighthearted summer camp activities. :)**

**Take Care.  
**


	12. Chapter 12

**A.N: Thank you very very very much everyone who submitted a teacher. My little note this time is to tell you that I have finally decided what to do about the super-dark bits of Frost. From now on, if you see "X-X-X-X-X-X-X" in front of a passage instead of "xxxxxxxx," it is there to signal adult themes that may not be suitable for all people. Granted, it probably won't get worse than pg13, but just a heads up. While I would like you to read those bits, as they might contain things such as character development or important scenes that involve language that is not suitable for all ages, I am not suggesting that you must read them. You could skip them entirely and still understand the story. Anyway, enjoy. **

X-X

Caen hated the first day of school. It wasn't the whole jumble of nerves and excitement that marked it, it wasn't the reoccurring nightmares of the day gone wrong, it wasn't the two days beforehand it that were filled with an onslaught of incoming students. It was her name.

She shifted uncomfortably back and forth in her seat, waiting for the first bell to sound. Up at the front, a particularly awful Buneary peered out at all of them, her black eyes like intolerance. Caen took a few breaths. It was ok for the moment. Mr. Finetivus would be here soon, and then they could spend the customary seven billion hours discussing school policy and all that nonsense. He'd been her homeroom teacher for three years now, going on four, and his crazy behavior no longer frightened her. And besides, that wasn't even the issue. It was more a matter of pronouncing her name.

She watched as he strode in, his dark chocolate eyes sweeping the room. He flipped his hair and set down his papers, grinning his snow white smile at the class. He adjusted his collar and ran his hand through his Buneary's fur. When Terra was with him, you could almost forget she was pretty much a homicidal manic. She tolerated Caen and rest of the homeroom class, a grace that she bestowed on few others. Caen thought it was sort of sad: just as she got used to them, they left.

"Wow," Caen's roommate said placidly, "He just gets hotter every time I look at him. Its like, I turn around, bam. Next level of hottitude. I blink, wa-pow, Hotty is here to teach you all _sorts_ of things," she stated blandly, blowing on her red nail polish and holding it up to the light. "Of course, I'd let him teach me all over the place –"

"Do you have something to say, Miss Vera?" Nikkei Finetivus suddenly interjected, and Caen watched her roommate pale like no tomorrow. Avalon shook her head and slapped a hand over her mouth. She sent an affronted look towards Caen, as if not being allowed to speak her mind was an insult. Caen grinned. Avalon was probably the only student in the whole school that could get Caen to smile. There was something to be said about spending every day together for three years. It made a bond that was somewhere between sisterhood and friendship.

"So," Avalon said, her eyes twinkling, "I'm thinking it's going to be good this year. Only one, maybe two," she mused, before turning to paw through her almost-empty bag. She retrieved an unused folder and opened it, waiting for the incoming flurry of papers. She shot a look towards Caen, a smile playing on her lips. She made the same bet every year, trying to relax her friend, but every year she was proven wrong.

"Yeah," Caen said, her eyebrows arched, "Why not? I mean, it's not like I've been here for three years. I mean, you'd think teachers would talk or something. But no, I bet you, senior year rolls around and they're still getting my name wrong," she frowned a little, mimicking her friend's actions as she dug through her bag. She rolled her eyes and put on a confused face. "Miss…K-K-K-ay…Miss Can…Miss Marx," Caen imitated, waving her hands as if she was trying to sign the name into a correct pronunciation. Avalon opened her eyes wide and then narrowed them.

"I know this game! Two words. Starts with a 'C'... Carrot. Carrot cake," she gasped, as if she was actually thinking. Caen grinned and took her schedule from Mr. Finetivus, smiling as his Delcatty stalked his shoelaces. The smile dropped off her face pretty quickly as she saw her first class of the day: physics. She rolled her eyes. Of course she would have a hard class first block. Why not? The world worked that way.

"Hey," she called to Avalon, "You ever had Mr. Grain?" Caen looked back down towards the paper in her hands. It wasn't actually that bad, minus the first class. Avalon was peering at her own schedule so intensely that she only offered a small headshake in reply. Caen sighed, looking up at the clock as their first homeroom of the year ticked away. It was longer due to the distribution of papers, but her new classes waited just an hour away. "Alright," she murmured, "Let's do this."

One hour and seven minutes later, Mr. Grain was working his way through his attendance sheet. Caen sighed and flipped the pen over and over and over in her hand, wishing she actually knew someone in the class. At least her name happened in the middle, when everyone had stopped paying attention. Her dark hazel eyes watched as her old, frail teacher slowly toiled his way through the classroom, one person at a time. He looked somewhere between wise and sickly, and something about him made Caen very sad. She couldn't think what.

"Miss…Kay…Miss…Can…Miss Can-ee…" he tried, peering at the paper with disbelief. She could hear his thoughts now:_ oh god it's one of those impossible names._ She sighed, blowing her hair away from her face, before lazily lifting one arm.

"It's _Caen_," she stated, pronouncing it "Kay-En." Once, when she was younger, for the heck of it, she had told all of her teachers a different intonation. It had gotten annoying about four days in. She smiled grimly as he moved on and she had some serious flashbacks. Those were the nice days, the days when she could actually have fun. Now her arm burned whenever she even considered doing something wrong. The four tally marks just seared away and reminded her that everything comes with a price.

It was up to her how much that price would be.

xxxxxxx

Ike's second class was English. He recognized a few people in the room, but the person he was sitting next to held no file in his mental database.

"I'm Ike," he offered dutifully. The tall, dark boy just glowered at him. Ike had never actually been glowered at before. He thought it was somewhere between amusing and frightening. "Awesome," Ike muttered to himself. Of course he would get seated next to Emo Kid. Why not? Ike looked around the room and spotted Nathan, who was staring hungrily at the teacher. The scientist realized he should be paying attention. English just didn't matter that much to him. It wasn't a personal thing. It was just… he thought his talents were better used elsewhere.

The teacher was calling roll. "Sage?" he said lazily, and Emo Kid raised his large paw. Ike pursed his lips and held up his hand when his name was called, but his brain was already debating the odds that he would get stuck with the weird kid that had a funny name and no sense of propriety.

Before the equation was complete – it turned out balancing the unspecified variables was harder than he thought – the teacher was scrawling something on the board.

"This is English Intensive. It's a class for freshmen. My name is Justin Montgomery," he stated in his soft voice, his brown eyes peering around the class. A few people snuck a glance at their schedules, just to be sure, but no one got up to leave. Assured, the young teacher turned back to his blackboard and wrote a phrase before gesturing to the class. "Um, every day you will have a new prompt in my class. I expect you all to bring a notebook and pen, but for today, I have paper and such for anyone out of luck," he murmured, fidgeting with the lined paper he was holding. Ike peered at the board. It said, "You have wings." He rolled his eyes. What was this nonsense? This was why he liked math better: there was none of this flowery ridiculousness.

Nathan was one of the students that had a notebook ready. He was already writing. He could tell he would enjoy this class. Ten minutes of free writing every day was a blessing. It woke him up, made his blood run. He loved the prompt, too.

Nathan's story went like this: You have wings, but you are falling. You forget why you exist. You see a little girl in front of you. She smiles at you and says, Do not be afraid. You had not thought to be afraid until she had said it. Now you can feel fear running ice crystals up and down your body. You thrash and try to work your useless feather attachments, but it's down down down and you're falling too fast to stop.

Do not be afraid, she repeats, and you glare at her because that makes no sense. You are falling and she is flying, but you can't remember the distinction between the two. You know that somewhere, sometime, you used to know everything, you used to love, you used to like the feeling of wind and rain and sky. She is a reminder of that. She reminds you that you could be her, but instead you are falling. This is unfair, you realize. What makes her any better than you? She is ugly and dull and she does not have wings. You reach out and grab her, take her with you, fall through the air like eyes and still still still she does not die. You want her to die. She is the past. You hate her. You wrap your wings around her and tell yourself, I will make sure she goes too.

Then you are her and she has wings. She is flying and you are falling, and suddenly you remember the difference. She is smiling and you are crying. She will be fine and you will dash against the night sky, no longer angel but just blood and bone and merciless horror. She is laughing and she soars next to you, cupping your face in her summer-light hands. Her disgusting beautiful horrible twist of a pair of lips tells you how to live, but you can't remember who you are. She laughs and makes a promise with you.

Do not be afraid.

xxxxxxx

Izzy's third class was martial arts. She discovered Grace in the changing room and let out a joyful squeal. The two of them changed into their gym clothes, giggling and making friends. Grace was wearing all black still, her tight black shirt and loose black sweatpants a sort of familiar fashion faux-pas. They wandered into the huge bamboo room, eyes wide with freshmen fear. In the center, a teacher paced back and forth, her Sableye at her heel.

They took a seat on the black mats next to Jarel, watching their teacher move like the wind. She flipped her raven hair and shred her eyes through the room. She pursed her lips and brought herself to a neutral position that promised nothing but instant death.

"Most of you will drop this class," she promised, in a voice like a ringing bell, "And I will not care." Every movement from her reminded Izzy of something, but she couldn't say what. Pace, pace, pace.

"You," Ms. Ikusa growled, pointing to Jarel, "Stand. Face me," she commanded, and the poor boy lugged himself to his feet. He took a position he was comfortable with: the sort of hunched wall of muscle that was the ready position for boxing and football both. Guided by the Sableye, the class skittered towards the edges of the bamboo room, pressing themselves against the wall with wide eyes, leaving the mat empty for Jarel's destruction.

Spirit Ikusa barely moved, and yet Jarel watched his vision go from her face to the ceiling. She sighed and returned to her killer's neutral, watching as he pulled himself to his feet. "You sit too far back on your heels. You did keep your knees bent, which was good for you. But you pitch yourself too far forward. Watch where you put your balance," she stated, and then itched her finger towards another person. One by one she felled them with barely any effort. Izzy watched and tried to keep all of the corrections alive in her head, so when that white finger pointed towards her chest, she didn't feel that it would be a complete decimation.

The blonde centered herself and watched for the first move. It was a feint, she saw, because the power behind it didn't signify a legitimate attack. She didn't flinch; trying to mirror the neutral, ready position as best as her untrained body would let her. She saw the actual strike, and tried to deflect it, but her outwards jab had too much strength in it, and Ms. Ikusa took full advantage of the sudden shift in weight. Izzy found herself on her side, her spine and ribs complaining of several budding bruises. "Very well done, Miss Tessman. You perceived the first feint, but lent too much power to your deflection. Next time wait until you are able to fight back with the least amount of power," Ms. Ikusa stated, picking an imaginary piece of lint off her shirt. Pace, pace. pace. It was the closest she'd come to praise all day. Beaming, Izzy detached herself from the floor and padded over to Grace, who gave her a high-five, murmuring with delight.

Three people later, it was Grace's turn. She bumped fists with her friend and pulled her loose sweatpants farther up her body, humming. She half-danced towards the center of the mat, grinning at her serious teacher. She shot a look towards her roommate, and Izzy tried to grin back. The poor girl was about to get several welts, at the very least. The blonde could already see all the misplaced weight, all the weaknesses. As soon as Grace had stepped on the mat, she'd lost.

A shudder ran down the brunette, and Izzy's certainty melted away. Grace was still smiling, but suddenly a furious darkness was melting the air around her. Izzy, with her mind trained through her Shiftry, felt the change as true as if it had happened to herself. Grace had been replaced with a cold, hateful smile that didn't belong on her face at all. She was singing, too, something soft and corrupted. Her body was in exactly the same killing neutral, the perfect center of coiling muscle. She'd been trained, Izzy saw. Grace knew what she was doing.

"Oh, la," Grace chirped joyfully as Ms. Ikusa began with the feint. As she went for the real strike, Grace waited until the inside of her teacher's elbow was within her hitting distance and slammed it into bending, deflecting the hit. Grace was singing a children's lullaby, every note sending shivers down Izzy's spine for no reason she could think of. Spirit Ikusa twisted out of the hit and spun, whipping out her left arm for a quick battering across her student's face. But already the brunette was crouching and sweeping her leg, narrowly missing as her teacher swiftly dodged. Grace took the opportunity to rise to her full level and strike out, but suddenly the teacher was moving much, much faster and Grace was on her back, her final note jarred by the impact of her body on the mat.

Instantly, Izzy saw her friend return. The brunette flinched and gritted her teeth against the quick pain, but she didn't seem too offended at ending up defeated. She was humming again, but it was the tuneless beat that Izzy was used to. Ms. Ikusa shook herself back into neutral and stared at her beaten student with an appraising eye. "Well done. You must be quicker with your attacks, however, and stop holding back. You pause too many times. Do not think, act. I sense you dislike actual attacks, seeing as you made your strikes slower than your dodges, and I must tell you that such nostalgia is not smiled upon in my classroom. Next time, attack with everything you have. Otherwise, do not enter my presence again. I will not be insulted by your misplaced compassion," the teacher said sternly, watching as Grace removed herself from the floor, shook herself, and padded silently back to her spot. The class reeled in the brunette's chiding, and the next victim was even more unwilling than the rest. For the rest of the class, the only voice heard was that of the ink-haired teacher, biting out fierce corrections.

When Izzy faced her friend at the end of the class, she peered into those dark eyes, wondering what exactly she would find: that killer intent or the familiar innocence.

She found both, one better hidden than the other. But it was there all the same.

xxxxxxx

Fourth period brought Tobi to gym class. He didn't really mind the class so much, and besides, Davion was there, making sure all the girls didn't look at him. Yeah, that was awesome. Being in the same class as a weirdo like that. A weirdo with disgustingly good looks, too. Not even a normal weirdo.

Davion saw him and almost smiled. Tobi had some serious flashbacks to the first day he had met the model, and instantly covered his face. The dancer didn't seem too concerned at all, switching his weight back and forth on his newly healed leg. The teacher was a bright speck of a woman, all orange pixie-cut hair and shining amber eyes. Her name was Cam Blake and she was making them run wind-sprints. That was fine, Tobi thought, but the least the model could do was pretend that he wasn't so _good_ at it, jogging along like oh whatever, I do this every day.

A girl was keeping pace with the boys, her brown hair streaking out behind her. Instantly Tobi put her into a movie. She was feeling the giant monster. It was coming closer. She would be the romantic interest, he decided, the one that almost didn't die. She would be the one that would fall in love with Captain Model Guy, make out, and then go see what that noise was. She wouldn't come back, but she would put up a fight. Davion – because Davion had to be Captain Model Guy – would go looking for her, brandishing a torch and calling her name. He would make it out alive. He was lucky like that.

"I'm Talyn," she announced to Davion, ignoring the filmmaker with such intensity that he wondered if she'd even seen him. She grinned at the model, batting her eyelashes and running at the same breakneck speed as if this was pretty much normal for her. The dancer looked up for a moment, reading her face, before nodding, bored.

"Talyn Lynch," she affirmed, as if he had asked. Tobi was fine with a pretty girl hitting on a boy in front of him. No, he thought, actually he wasn't fine at all, but at least he could picture the both of them in a horror movie. Besides, he liked being behind the camera, not in front.

"That is Davion," Tobi informed her, trying not to pant, "I'm Tobi. Davion says hello," he stated, watching the teacher and wishing she would signal that it was time to stop running. He hated running. When had he ever been fine with it? His life pretty much sucked, he realized. Running and introducing the hot guy. That was pretty much it.

Talyn turned to him and almost looked surprised, as if she really hadn't seen him at all. Tobi sighed. It wasn't like he was short or ugly or something. He just wasn't Davion. "I'm sure," she purred soothingly, not out of breath at all, "But can't he speak for himself? I mean, you can, can't you, Davion?"

He stared at her and slowed down as Cam Blake waved her hand to stop their incessant back-and-forth. His face showed absolutely no sort of humor as he shook his head, opening his mouth and pointing at his tonsils before sending her a very sorrowful look.

"Aw, you lost your voice?" Talyn cooed, melting into that girl slurry that Davion turned everyone into. She looked really worried too, which made Tobi roll his eyes. No, Davion had not lost his voice. Davion was being amusing. This was Davion's sense of humor, such as it was. They all hit the floor for push-ups, Davion working with the quick precision of someone who repeating this action daily.

"Yes," Tobi said dully, "Can't you see he's absolutely dying?"

Davion sent him what might have been a grin and started doing one-handed pushups. Tobi rolled his eyes, and would have made a comment if Talyn hadn't followed the model's example, putting one hand behind her back and counting under her breath.

"You know something?" Tobi declared, raising one eyebrow, "That's just not right."

xxxxxxx

It wasn't like he wanted to. It was an accident. Yeah, that was it, it was an accident. And if he wasn't so busy, he would have probably done something about it, but as it was, he was pretty swamped. Also, it was the fourth block of the day, it wasn't like he could just leave or something. Plus lunch was next block. That was ok.

"_You're_ taking an art class?" Will said, his eyebrows rising as he stared at Mika. The boy who was a knight frowned and looked away muttering something about an accident and the fate of the world resting only on his shoulders.

The teacher strode into the small art room, grinning at them, fluttering her eyelashes suggestively. "Sorry," he whispered to Orson, "Does she have something in her eyes, maybe?"

Orson shrugged and tugged on tape left on the table. He wasn't sure how comfortable he was with the photography class. He knew he had signed up to try new things, but with all the artists in the room, he felt suddenly very, very small. It wasn't a feeling he was used to. "Some sort of cataracts or possibly an eyelash, I assume," he replied in his lazy Southern voice. He had befriended Will pretty much the moment the smaller boy had sat down. So at least his people skills were still up and running.

"My name," she sang in a voice like staples snapping, "Is Kayle Norad. You handsome boys will want to call me Kaylee, but please, it's Miss Norad. And no love notes until _after_ class," she giggled, sitting on her desk and crossing her legs, flipping her wavy blonde hair. It had light blue highlights in it, as if she used to be wild enough to dye her hair. She looked sort of washed-up and broken, as if she used to have beauty and now just had memories. "This is a photography class, so if you want me to model, just let me know. For the first week, I thought we'd have some fun, just let loose and play with black and white cameras before exploring pinhole cameras," she chirped, handing out rusty replicas of what used to be pricey materials. Will gently pushed the camera over to Orson and pulled out his own. You don't spend four hundred dollars on something and then not use it.

"Of course," Miss Norad called, "As a connesuir of fashion – glamour, that is – I am more than willing to give advice. Now then, be free. Come back five minutes before the bell, ok?" Her announcement was met with a rush of chairs scraping against the ground and fights over who got to use the camera first. A lot of the students had their own, but the few who were in the class for an experiment were battling it out.

Mika frowned. They didn't allow pokemon inside the classroom, so most people let their companions stay in their dorm rooms. It sort of frightened him that Zulu was free, running around with that ugly Zangoose. He suppressed a shiver and heard something click. Will had snapped a picture of him, the short boy grinning wickedly. "See," he called, giving the furious fighter some space, "Even you can show beauty."

Snarling, Mika stared at the camera in his hands. Slowly, as if it might bite him, he lifted it to his eye. Orson was leaning over, pawing through his bag. The way the light hit him made him glow with a certain shyness. Click, and Mika's art talent was forever encased in film. He aimed it at his teacher, who was watching her students depart with this loneliness in her eyes that made Mika remember things he didn't want to. Click. Will, balancing on a chair and clutching a tree to get the perfect shot. Click.

Orson, chuckling to himself, watched the smaller boy drift off. The mean one _would_ be a good artist. Something about darkness always made creativity come to light.

xxxxxxx

"Wrong. Freud," Thompson stated, flipping his black hair victoriously. "Freud is the most wrong psychologist. You know he did drugs? That just doesn't make any sense. 'Hello, I am about to set foot in previously undiscovered science, but instead of being progressive, I'm about to get high.' I mean, what was he thinking?"

"No, I'm telling you, it was Adler. He was as mad as a broken desk. He was all off about the spirit thing. And you take drugs, I don't think you should be talking," Felix replied, stretching his muscles and yawning, his long tongue curling in a way that reminded Thompson that Felix was and always would be half beast. His eyes were bright with joy. He loved taking this class. While his talent was in magic, he enjoyed psychology too much to leave it alone.

"But that's not the _same,_" Thompson persisted, "I take meds. Different. And on that note, can I just say I disapprove of the wild abandon with which the psychiatric community dispenses medicine? I mean, the massive studies showing them to be ineffectual, and, in children, detrimental, are worth, what, nothing? No, we just clog our ears and pop pills because we're fond of the high we get," he snarled, and Felix laughed.

"It's not like I've heard this before," he snorted, "Since you only say this every day, but can you please elaborate on the line between necessary medicine and unnecessary medicine? And besides, the risks don't always outweigh the benefits, and when there's money to be made, make it," he stated, grinning.

Thompson's mouth snapped shut. He drew a breath to chide his friend for the moral ambiguity of that announcement, but he knew that it was pointless. Felix, while understanding the _idea_ of morals, was not actually in possession of any. The way the magician saw the world only made Thompson shudder.

Mr. Finetivus strode into the room, grinning his broad-spectrum smile. Thompson rolled his eyes as half the girls let out a very audible sigh. "Ah, my fourth period senior class! Welcome back, all of you. Although we seem to have dwindled slightly in numbers, I'm sure it won't be too much of a problem. Now, I know you all are pretty much done with school already, so yes, I know you'll want to slack, but you've got to work hard, push through and whatnot. Now then: to psych."

"He's just so dreamy," Felix purred quietly to Thompson, "I want to bake quiche on his abs, like an egg on a sidewalk," he stated in falsetto, batting his eyelashes and flipping his inky hair.

Thompson raised one eyebrow and lowered his voice into a rich baritone. "You know that's the truth," he growled suggestively, and the two of them burst into quiet laughter.

For a moment, they both could forget that one of them could never love while the other was dying from something that didn't have a cure. They could forget that soon the two of them would just be one, just a broken husk of a boy that was never at home with his humanity.

xxxxxxx

"I don't _wanna_," Tommi groaned, yawning and staring at his schedule. The lunch ruckus raised its walls around his ears. Grace grinned at him and rolled her eyes while munching on a carrot.

"You shouldn't have signed up if you didn't want to," Izzy stated practically, grinning while smacking Tarrow's hand as he reached for her pudding cup. She looked up through her lashes towards his tawny eyes. He had a few remnants from a fight on his face, and something about that rugged bruising screamed _sexy_. She ran her hands through her hair, shaking it and making the sun play in its strands with a sort of absent-minded flirtatious smile. Grace saw what her friend was doing and just rolled her eyes, crunching on her carrots and defending her pudding from Tarrow.

Tommi watched the way her hair fell like the sunset and a delicious smile crept across his lips. Tarrow saw him take a breath, but the false wizard interjected, "He didn't. I signed him up. It was only fair. He signed _me_ up. You can't really … 'undo' at Frost."

Tommi's smile left instantly. "I just… really, man? I mean, it could have been any other class. Legitimately. It could have been 'Country Music and You' and I wouldn't have cared. But you signed me up for pretty _ballet,_" he hissed, and Izzy giggled into her hand.

"Us," Tarrow corrected, "We are both signed up for pretty ballet. I imagine that by the end of it, we will be wearing toe shoes and dancing the Macarena with really fantastic ability," he stated, blinking at his plate. Where had his pudding gone? And why did Grace have an extra one?

"Only the girls dance with toe shoes," Izzy noted, watching as Tarrow did the math and lunged for his pudding. She let the two miscreants grapple with each other while she smiled prettily at Tommi. It wouldn't be so bad to date a senior, she thought. She could certainly do worse. Besides, she had always felt older, as if she'd actually been born two years beforehand and then had those years stolen from her.

"Now, that's just sexist," Tarrow replied, snatching the pudding and plunking it down on his plate. Grace giggled and licked her fingers, sending a knowing glance towards Will as she removed all the traces of chocolate goodness. Will was suddenly very distracted from his food, but she was already looking away.

Izzy smiled and looked at their full table. Yuki was laughing and making a monster from mashed potatoes, Nathan was grinning at something Will had said, Kratch was writing down something in her agenda, Tobi was translating for Davion, Tommi and Tarrow were already off on some tangent. They felt like a family. For a second, the blonde was content.

xxxxxxx

"Jason!" Rhyme grinned, rushing over to his roommate. Jason was pale and looked particularly unhappy. While it was school policy to take at least one martial arts class a year, that didn't mean he had to enjoy it. The only upside was that they had Mr. Lenard. Richard Lenard wasn't half as cruel as that she-witch Miss Ikusa. Students told horror stories about her all of the time.

"Jason, I met with Miss Bealy last night," Rhyme grinned, and Jason stared at the short boy. "She is a widow, you know. Roof problems, too, poor thing," he announced, and Jason clicked his tongue, knowing what the photographer was telling him.

"I'll see what I can do," he promised, and then focused on not dying within the first five minutes of his new class.

xxxxxxx

"I am Mako Wolff," he purred, flashing his gorgeous grin, "Pleased to meet you. This music class will be structured differently than you are used to. I expect you to team up with someone and make a duet. This will be your first project. It's due by the end of this week. I could teach you, but I doubt you need it. So pretty much, get to work. If you have any problems, come see me," he stated wearily, yawning.

"I like him," Yuki declared, once the entire class had sprung into chattering and picking teammates. She and Kratch had sort of just assumed they were going to be partners. Izzy had teamed up with someone Kratch had never seen before, but they seemed friendly enough.

"Like who?" the pianist yawned, taking her instrument out from under her chair and turning it on. She smiled a little and closed her eyes, running her fingers across the familiar notes. Despite the clatter of other songs in the room, she could pick out her own with perfection. She played a run and then looked up to see who Yuki liked so much.

"The teacher, silly. He's hot like the Sahara," she stated, licking her lips and warming up her vocal chords. Kratch laughed and shook her head. She was pretty sure that was not how the lyric went, but whatever.

Across the room, a violin started, slow and sweet and filled with a sort of longing that made Kratch look up, surprised. Izzy was playing, swaying with her bow as she filled the air with music. She stopped suddenly and asked her partner something, laughing at the response. Kratch almost felt cheated when it ended, but the feeling was gone as soon as she felt it.

"Dream… every night," Yuki was singing, "That one will come true," she sang, her voice like silk and memories and stardust. Her bright eyes suddenly opened and shone on her roommate. "But only bad ones ever do," she whispered, and Kratch felt like crying.

"What's that from?" she asked, trying for nonchalant while she ran his fingers lightly over the keys. She knew what she was creating was pretty and heart-wrenching, but there was something about music coming from other people that made it sound better.

Yuki lifted one shoulder. "The Hush Sound, I think. Some song by them. Pretty good band," she yawned, and then it was all scales and deciding what song they should play and who should start.

Wolff got a call halfway through the class. He picked up the phone, ever discreet. No one was looking at him, all the students absorbed in their music. He frowned as he listened to the voice on the other end, staring at his fingernails.

"I know," he sighed, "She's in my class…Yeah, I will. No, don't worry about it… Yeah. I assigned something ambiguous…no, I know you don't care. She's pretty good, just letting you know…yeah. Sorry. Sorry. Don't worry. She'll play by herself. Yeah. I can arrange that. Yeah, I'll take care of her. Yeah. No. Yeah. Ok. Bye." He hung up and sighed, rubbing his temples and closing his amber eyes.

"Miss Tessman," he called, "I need to speak with you."

xxxxxxx

"Longest day _ever_," Will groaned, throwing himself on the bed and closing his eyes. For a first day, it had been too filled with actual learning. Didn't teachers at Frost know that no one learned until the second week at least? He smiled, remembering his lunch block and a particular girl licking pudding off her fingertips. He flipped over and pulled himself up, padding over to the wardrobe where he had stashed his suitcase.

"You know, you'd think I'd get, like a medal for saving her life. Or a hug. I could go for a hug," he admitted, searching through his clothes for where he'd stashed his extra lens. The one he had needed to be cleaned. Nathan was sitting on his own bed, laying out flash cards for the science test he had in three days. School had barely started and already the workload was frightening.

"Wait, who are we talking about? Ah, nucleus? Yes," Nathan grinned and flipped over the card, putting it in his "done" pile. He frowned in concentration as he looked at the next description, trying to place it with a part of the cell.

"_Grace_, obviously. And Izzy, actually, now that I think about it. You know, whoever assigned rooms was really awesome. I mean, now they're friends and _we're_ their friends. Although I figure there's probably a necessary blood sacrifice before either of us stands a chance with either of them," he admitted, throwing a shirt onto his pillow and discovering the bundle that signified his prize, "Although I do think I've seen Izzy giving you some attention," he grinned rakishly and set to carefully undoing the strings.

Nathan rolled his eyes and answered, "Nucleotide. Nah, I don't think so. Izzy's kind of way too hot to like me," he sighed, and Will gave him a startled look, as if words that were normal boyspeak were totally foreign when they came out of the writer's mouth. Nathan grinned at Will's shock and peered at the next card, wishing his honors Bio class was easier.

"You have a point, my fine garrulous friend. A point indeed. I suppose the only thing to do is for you to go after Izzy while I approach the wild Grace," he paused and beamed at his friend, "I do like me some mystery," he purred, and Nathan could feel his roommate's attraction to the brunette burn across the room. Will lit up even at the mention of Grace. Nathan couldn't pretend he hadn't noticed. It was hard not to, the way his friend practically exploded with glee at the idea of being with her.

Nathan just stared at the index card and replied, "Endoplasmic reticulum."

xxxxxxx

"Well, Nathan likes you," Izzy yawned, folding her clothes into her wardrobe. Grace laughed and continued doing her sit-ups on the floor, working off what she had eaten for dinner. The boys had been particularly jumpy that night, and it had set the blonde to pondering. Izzy got to undoing her braids, shaking out her hair and running her hand through it, sticking out her tongue. "I got a hair headache," she groaned, biting her lip when her finger snagged on a knot.

From her spot on the ground, Grace replied, "Aw, I hate it when that happens! And no, he does not. If anyone likes anyone, Will likes you," she stated, while Izzy watched her body curl up and down, up and down, up and down. The brunette's mouth silently formed the number she was on: one hundred six. One hundred seven. One hundred eight.

Izzy grinned and pulled a brush through her messy honey locks. "You think so? I don't know," she purred, but she felt a blush setting on her cheeks. "I rather got the impression he preferred brunettes," she drawled, the familiar humility she owned possessing her for an instant. That was how it worked. She knew she was pretty. It was the bane of all girls that they were never sure just _how_ pretty they were.

"No way. Totally into you," Grace said, and Izzy picked up the fact her friend was starting to breathe just a little bit harder. "Plus you are hotter than I am," Grace laughed, sticking out her tongue. One hundred twenty six. One hundred twenty seven.

Izzy looked down to her body. The brunette had a different shape than she had, but she couldn't tell if what the artist said was true. The blonde did tend to keep herself in more than workable condition. She pursed her lips. Maybe she should set to doing sit-ups too. It couldn't hurt. "Still, it's not like he's exactly, you know, given me a token of his undying love. I mean, if he _did_, I'd be fine with it, but…"

"Oooh, Izzy likes Will, Izzy likes Will, Izzy likes – ouch!" Grace squealed as the brush connected with her head. She laughed and continued working her abs into submission. Izzy laughed too, twisting her body into a stretch. It was decided. She was going running. No way could she sleep with so much energy.

"Shut up," Izzy giggled, "And come jogging with me. Two hot babes like us? We deserve an audience," she snickered, as Grace pulled up out of her one hundred and fiftieth sit-up.

"You know that's the truth," Grace replied, pursing her lips and jumping to her feet. "Anybody should be so lucky as to date us two."

"But let's hope it's someone who we like," Izzy allowed, waiting for her friend to slip on shoes. Tabbot and Serafina jumped to their feet, padding behind her. Izzy snapped her fingers for her Vibrava, Andara. The pokemon chirped joyfully and sailed through the open door, and Izzy laughed.

"Amen," Grace sang in response, looping her arm around her friend's, "And luck to Izzill."

"You did _not _just combine our names," Izzy groaned, rolling her eyes while secretly enjoying the name. She rolled it silently around on her tongue, trying it out.

Grace just giggled and set for the door.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

He knew he shouldn't, but it burned at him. Restlessly he flipped the silver blade over and over and over in his fingers, ignoring the quick bite against his palm. His roommate was due back any instant. This was stupid. This was not what he should be doing.

It pressed into his skin like wisdom. One white line, filling with red. Just one more cut in a sea of scars. He hated it, but what else was he going to do? How else was he going to get out that aching numb? Remind himself he was awake? Remind himself he had something to live for, blood in his veins, heart in his chest, hurt in his head?

It all promised immortality of an instant, it promised everlasting justice for all his wrongs. It promised to silence his nightmares and it promised to let him fall, let him tumble, let go and sail the skies with nothing but that one bright blade.

He sliced into his skin one more time, one more time, one more time.

Oh how he wished that someone would stop him.

xxxxxxx

He watched them run run run on the monitors, his smile a grand display of teeth and malice. She stood next to him, her hands folded, her head down because no no no she couldn't look him in the eye what a pathetic little excuse for a human. It was funny funny funny blood leaking from his fingertips he could see it now but it was only in his head.

He laughed his splintering wood laugh, and clapped his hands twice, shaking his honey hair. Snow, snow, snow and one two three look at them go. She was his sunlight little darling girl all grown up. He wore her bracelet like love, right around his wrist, right where he knew she could feel his heartbeat. She looked like him she looked like him she looked like - red sun, red sun, red blood.

"All change," he whispered, knives on his tongue, watching as it did.

xxxxxxx

The track was indoors, but seeing as it was in one of the outer-ring buildings, it was gigantic. The two girls ran and ran and ran, laughing and talking as their pokemon took the journey with them. By the time they decided to go back to their dorms, the night had set in total abandon.

Grace furrowed her brow as she opened their door. Talon and Jasper were on her bed, staring at her expectantly. "That's…new," she said, "I thought I left the two of you in your pokeballs…?"

Izzy shut the door and frowned. "You did," she affirmed, padding over to the two pokemon. Grace followed slowly, running her hands through their fur. A distant sort of smile played across the brunette's lips, but it turned into a confused frown as she felt something under Talon's collar. She slipped out a yellowed piece of folded paper, gently smoothing it out. She gasped and dropped it, skittering across the room and pressing herself against the wall.

Cautiously, Izzy picked up the note, afraid of what she would see. In spidery ink, stained against the paper, someone had scrawled:

_Get out now._

Grace looked up, fear dancing in her dark eyes. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. "Th-th-th- That's _Ashley's_ handwriting," she breathed, and suddenly the note was poison.

X-X

**A.N: School! Teenage drama! The second shameless promotion of a band I like! By the way, the scene with Caen and having the teacher mispronounce her name: that is stolen from my life. :) **

**Holy**** c****ow, do I have a ton of people to thank! Looking at you, the person whom I am looking at. Also, all of these guys who made all of those guys:**

**Tayln Lynch: FFalta****  
Spirit Ikusa: Tyltalis****  
Cam Blake: Korona Karyuudo  
Justin Montgomery: Juicetin Boo  
Nicholai Finetivus: SoujaGurl  
Mr. Grain: Kenzur  
Richard Lenard: pepperpizzapal  
Mako Wolff: WolfSummoner93  
Avalon Vera: Korona Karyuudo  
Kaylee Norad: pepperpizzapal**

**For those of you counting, that brings me to thirty characters, if you include Grace :) Which is why I'm thinking that Chapter Fourteen will be the last O.C-accepting chapter. **

**Ah, reviewers. I should write you a poem and it would go like this: Every time I see you wrote/it makes happiness well in my throat/for you are my favorite people/something flattering that rhymes with 'people' :) I love you all very very very much. Muchas Gracias. Especially since you just put up with this chapter that I am pretty sure I hate? I have a school phobia, evidently.  
**

**Questions? Comments? Feel free to contact me and I will show you to the mothership. It is big and shiny and tells me what to write. :)**

**I hope you didn't hate this chapter like I did...and that you like how I portrayed your characters.  
**

**Take care.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A.N: This week is the last week I am accepting a character, and Chapter Fourteen will also be the last weekly update. After that, it's going to be every other week. Sorry!**

X-X**  
**

She used to be beautiful.

Kaylee Norad faced the mirror and held her hand up to her reflection. Her eyes used to hold a certain sparkle, like the sun off of the ocean. Now they were pale and rimmed in wrinkles that she'd tried to wipe away. Her hair used to tumble down her back, the color of hay and happiness. She'd dyed it before, fond of its versatility. The remnants of her experiments in colors remained, tucked in strands and highlights. The blue streaks in her mane reminded Kaylee that all things washed away. She looked down at her veined, pale hand. She was starting to wash away, too.

She touched the mirror as if she could hide the signs of her age. Not all of them were bad: here were the laugh lines; there was just a little extra plumpness from her stay with a chef. She looked down to her worn hands, her worn body. She could see what she had used to look like: long, lean, almost curvy but too athletic for anything real. She looked back to reflection, trying to smile. She promised herself she was prettier than she saw, that it was just a trick of the light.

Her smile was rimmed in cracks and filled with fake teeth. The bathroom light hit them, showing off the porcelain glimmer of past mistakes. She blinked and shook herself, reaching into her makeup kit, searching for just the right foundation, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick. She was using her fall makeup, her dark-weather makeup. It was so important. Layer by layer, she hid her age under synthetic products.

She used to be beautiful. It was so easy then. A swipe of lip gloss, maybe some mascara if she was feeling dangerous. It had been an afterthought. It had been when her skin was tight against her bones, when she had a youthful innocence, when she was invincible.

Kaylee paused as she put on her third layer of lipstick – the lighter, highlighting color – and found her eyes in the mirror. She saw. Even underneath two different tones and a powder cover, there remained her wrinkles and her ugly age. Shaking, she finished her forty-minute makeup routine.

And then she started to cry.

xxxxxxx

By Wednesday, all of her friends knew about the note and Grace's sister. There was something to be said about the versatility of secrets. Kratch pondered that as she picked away on the school's piano, her blue grey eyes watching the progression of notes.

The music room was in one of the large buildings of the fifth ring. The Frost school had split the buildings up between music classes, libraries, and dramatic arts. The auditorium was the building farthest to the north, and teachers were always fighting over its usage. For now, Mako Wolff had consented to spend hump day in one of the 'smaller' rooms. Kratch didn't understand how he called it that. It was about the size of her house, all wooden floors and tan walls. Everywhere, the sun shifted in through the windows, making all of the students golden with light.

She let her fingers slide across the ivory, watching the class around her. Yuki was humming to herself and leafing through the music sheets they'd been using. They'd gotten pretty far in their duet, but inspiration was dwindling. Farther across the room, Izzy was nodding to her partner. Kratch had learned her name recently: Mi-Yeong. Everyone called her Mimi, though, and she seemed pretty nice. She had a sharp tongue, though, and Kratch respected that.

Suddenly she knew what their duet was missing. She spun on the wooden bench to face Yuki. "It's not sassy enough," she declared, and Yuki grinned in reply.

Meanwhile, Mimi was flipping her long inky hair over her shoulder, repositioning the violin higher up her shoulder. She was frowning, trying to decide whether or not she liked the notes she'd just played. She could practically see them in front of her face, ugly in their positioning. She shook her head. "Nope, scratch that," she stated, and Izzy nodded. "Yeah, actually, I was thinking maybe at this point we should start weaving it towards rock, you know, maybe jazz. Something more _us_," she said slowly, liking the way it sounded. Izzy just nodded again, looking away to where Wolff was running his long fingers across his own black piano. The sunlight shifted through his hair, turning it white in the sun.

"Actually," Mimi said dryly, "I have decided, executively, that you should know: I'm pregnant. It's your boyfriend's. I have spent all of your life savings on tacky costume jewelry and pumpernickel bread. Your boyfriend thinks this is a wonderful idea, and we're going to elope soon."

Izzy just nodded and replied lazily, "That's a good idea," and Mimi's eyebrows rose. She grinned wickedly and crouched rapidly in front of her partner. The blonde's head whipped around, surprised.

"_Arceus_," she swore, rocking herself away from the person that was suddenly so close.

"No," Mimi admitted, "But I'm told the resemblance is startling," she grinned, taking a step back. Izzy realized just where she'd been staring and flinched visibly. She lifted her violin slowly, and then starting playing something sweet with longing. It drifted into the air like sunlight.

She stopped suddenly, looking at her instrument. "It doesn't matter," she murmured to herself, "It's not the sort of thing I'd do."

"Do what?" Mimi asked quietly, unsure of the look in her friend's eyes. She wasn't sure she actually wanted to know what was happening.

Izzy barely looked up. "Poison you."

xxxxxxx

Justin Montgomery watched his class with a nervous sort of passion. The words were up on the board, but he never knew if they liked them or not. He could tell whether or not they were slaves of English by the way they were hunched over their paper. There was Sage, barely concealing his doodle, there was Ike, writing but not into it, and then there was Nathan, notebook curled into his chest, scratching away. The prompt read, "Tomorrow is an audition."

Ike wrote: The audition was dawning. Soon the science community would accept me, regardless of my age. Soon the fame would dwindle and then I'd really be able to succeed, out from under prying eyes.

Nathan wrote: Tomorrow is always an audition, a new year, a festival, a full moon, a class, a new reason to be distracted and horrible and anxious.

And what of today? What of this moment where every breath I take reminds me I can't have you? Where I stare at the paper and think This Emptiness Is My Life. I wish my life was You instead.

Sage wrote: The audition was for awesomeness. I got in.

xxxxxxx

Grace watched him all through lunch. He noticed it about halfway through. He tried play it off, reaching across for her apple.

She caught his wrist and pushed his sleeve back, revealing fresh red against white skin. She frowned and tossed her head viciously, focusing on her lunch instead.

She knew. She knew. She knew. His heart beat it out like pain.

He wanted to die.

xxxxxxx

"He teaches psych. I'm thinkin' Imma take psych," Avalon grinned, and Caen rolled her eyes. They were in the same math class together, taught by a certain Mr. Garson.

"You're _obsessed,_" Caen laughed, "He's like, a bazillion years older than we are," she stated, rifling through her folder for last night's homework.

"So _not_," Avalon protested, "He's twenty-four. I asked him."

"When's his birthday?"

"August 14th," she replied automatically, and then realized that she just proved Caen's point. She rolled her eyes and flipped through her notebook to the page of writing she'd done the night before. "It's not an obsession until I start stalking him," she noted.

"Oh?" Caen asked, raising his eyebrow, "Obsession isn't seeing if 'Avalon Finetivus' sounds like a legitimate name?"

Avalon stuck out her tongue in reply. "You know, darling, you're gonna fall for somebody, and I'm not gonna call _you_ obsessed. _I_ understand the difference between stalking and a…healthy passion."

"You're planning on stalking him, aren't you?" Caen giggled, sending her friend a look. Her roommate looked purposefully away, pursing her lips. Slowly she slid her eyes towards Caen, a playful look on her face.

"Starting Friday, that boy is _mine_."

xxxxxxxx

Talyn yawned and stretched herself in such a way that Tobi could see her muscles ripple under her tight shirt. Captain Model Guy was too busy being good-looking to actually _do_ anything. It was actually the worst gym class Tobi had ever had.

Cam Blake yawned, holding a wooden bat in her hand. "Baseball, maybe?" she called, and was met with a groan as the students slowly pulled themselves towards her. She flipped it around her wrist expertly, smiling at them. "Davion, you're captain of the first team, Orson you're captain of the other," she said, peering at them. Orson won the coin toss and chose Jarel automatically. Davion grinned his slow smile and quirked his finger at Talyn. She squealed and danced over.

Orson took Tobi as his second choice, which made Tobi jump. No way. He had never been chosen last, but he was usually somewhere in the middle unless he knew the captain. Orson grinned at him. Tobi automatically placed him in a movie: the good-natured guy who died four people in, after you've fallen in love with him. He'd die protecting someone else. It was sort of sad.

Davion gave Tobi a knowing glance, choosing another girl for the team. From the sound of her elated shrieking, she was suddenly dunked in a pit of ravenous monsters. Pretty soon, Davion had taken most of the girls while Orson had most of the boys. Tobi rolled his eyes. It was such a Captain Model Guy move.

"You know you're gonna lose, right?" he said, passing Davion as his team padded towards the outfield.

Davion just grinned, slowly putting one arm around Talyn's shoulder. She giggled and pressed herself against him. All around him were girls that were practically begging just to touch him. For once, he actually saw fit to respond.

"You know," he replied, in his smooth deep voice, "I don't think we will."

xxxxxxxx

Jason's favorite place in the whole school was the common room. It was in the same place on all the levels of the dorm building, right in between the girl's half and the boy's half. It had a wooden table at the center, a plasma screen television on one wall and a large bulletin board, seven couches and seven chairs set in a ring. It was neutral territory. It was decorated differently on each story, though. The freshmen room, the ground level, was red and the bulletin board was covered in pamphlets advertising clubs.

Jason frowned and shifted his bag higher up on his shoulder. He was skipping lunch for this nonsense. "Rhyme?" he called, and from the shadows a man slipped into vision.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Jason breathed, and shook his head. "You shouldn't be here. Someone will know. You'll be –"

"Get this to him," the man breathed, holding out a large, thick orange envelope. "Everything depends on it."

And then he was gone.

xxxxxxx

It was Friday by the time they let him fight. It had been completely unfair: just because he was a freshmen didn't mean he couldn't take an upperclassman class.

"It's not that we don't like you," Felix, one of the teacher's assistants had drawled, "It's that we don't want you to die," he explained, and Mika had scowled in reply. He wasn't going to die. Even though they made him forsake his armor, he still had the sword on his back and enough practice to take anyone down. There was a bet going around the class about how long he would last. The longest was a minute. The other assistant, Tarrow, was hovering in a corner. It was the last block class. He was bored and he wanted to get some food. Mika noted that Tarrow had been stripped of his wizard's outfit, too, and was instead in clothes that were pretty normal.

"Alright," Cam Blake had finally allowed, "I don't see myself being able to stop you, so whatever," she said through the sunflower seeds in her mouth. She liked holding her class outside of the large building, instead teaching them in the middle of a field. But she was nice, he knew. He liked her, even if she'd taken fighting from him for awhile.

He stepped into what was platonically called "the circle of death" by Felix, who seemed so amused by the whole ordeal that Mika wondered if the kid was all right in the head. All around him were the signs of past battles: tamped down grass here, blood there. All swords were to remain sheathed, but sometimes a hit was hard enough to break skin. It wasn't a rare occurrence.

"Jace," Cam called, "You first," she said, nodding at the slight boy to attack Mika. Of course it was Jace. Jace was the weakest in the class, Jace was nothing compared to him. The other boy took a deep breath and rushed at the freshmen's face. That was his first mistake. Easily, like breathing, Mika deflected the thrown punch and offered his own fist in reply. Jace hardly made a noise as he fell.

The circle of death had rules. After the first attack, two more people would attack, than thee, and so on. It was out of the teacher's hands until the battle overwhelmed the victim. Mika waited for the next two, dodging, looking for an opening. There – he took both of the boy's heads and slammed them into each other. Blood.

The next three that stepped forwards. The first one, foolish in his approach, received a swift kick in the stomach. The other two managed a few hits on the freshmen, but one stumbled and suddenly felt a splitting pain between his ribcage. The last of the three found himself on the ground once a foot had hooked his ankle and taken him down.

It wasn't until he was taking on five people at once that Mika took out his sword. He whirled it in his hands dangerously, and then spun it in a pinwheel around him. Not one of his attackers was left standing. He grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet, watching as the rest of the crowd shuffled awkwardly, unwilling to take on the opponent they had misjudged.

Then Felix stepped forwards, a very reluctant Tarrow shadowing him. The students sucked in their breath. Even Cam Blake looked surprised. Felix _never_ fought. It wasn't that he didn't want to; it was that to him it was never needed. Everyone took a step backwards, as if they expected the poison inside of the circle to spring up and get them.

Mika twitched. It was involuntary, but Felix seemed to accept it as the first strike. Mika had time to observe the sheathed dagger, blink, and then briefly wonder if it was going to hurt. The amber-eyed boy moved liquid quick, striking the side of the freshmen's head, his ribs, his wrists. Tarrow moved too, but his only strike was directly under Mika's ribs, right in the soft spot, winding the poor boy and knocking him down. It felt like forever to the freshmen, an eternity of pain and humiliation.

"Five seconds and thirty-eight milliseconds," the teacher called approvingly, "Felix is running a little slow today," she added. The beast-boy grinned his sharp-tooth sheepishness, helping his opponent up. Tarrow was staring at his hands as if he was surprised that he'd managed any sort of attack at all. Mika hung his head and slid towards the rest of the crowd, but they all made space in a way they hadn't before. He looked up fiercely, expecting the normal jeers or amused pity. Instead, something else glittered in the upperclassmen's eyes.

Respect.

xxxxxxx

Spirit Ikusa frowned, holding her coffee and staring at the table in front of her. Richard Lenard and Mr. Grain stood in front of her. The two had their arms across their chest, mirroring her deep frown.

"I don't think so," she said, "That seems so…unlikely," Spirit protested, but she felt the truth in her bones.

"It's true," Richard murmured, his soft voice disgusted, "She's his."

"I fought her," Spirit spat, "And she was good. I bet he's been training her, that –"

"You know what it means, though," Mr. Grain interjected, and her frown deepened even farther. She shook her head, her black hair flying out around her, more from frustration than anything else.

"It means it's started," she answered, her voice low. "It means all of our efforts didn't do _anything._"

All of that work, wasted.

xxxxxxx

After school, the door was open, so she cautiously peeked in. Music was pumping through speakers and the bed to the left was strewn with all sorts of girly things: dresses, stilettos, hair bands, fishnet stockings, makeup, romance books. Her lips quirked upwards in a smile. "Hello?" she called, uncertain, pausing in the doorway.

"Come in! I'm in the bathroom trying something out," Tommi answered, and Izzy smiled, padding inside the room. She wondered which bed was Tarrow's. Probably the one on the right, covered in dirty clothes, scimitars, and a wizard hat.

She walked towards the bathroom, noting the view they had from the window. "I was wondering if Tarrow could tell me where Grace is. I have to ask her a question," she said, walking through the door that brought her to Tommi. He was perched on the edge of the bathtub, and her eyebrows skyrocketed. "Um, Tommi?" she drawled, staring at him.

He noticed her stare and pursed his lips, self-consciously smoothing out the wrinkles in his dress. "I know, the bow is a little garish, but I thought the pattern was cute. And the ruffles are to _die_ for. I thought I could just fix it as soon as I bought it," he stated, pulling the hem out in front of him with one hand, lifting one shoulder, "Thrift store purchase. What can you do?" he sighed, and Izzy was lost for words. He didn't have a single hint of teasing in his voice. Actually, the way he had phrased it was pretty much exactly the way a girl would.

"Sorry," she tried, because that was all she could think to say, "But are you shaving your legs?"

Tommi looked past his dress to the knee he had propped up on the edge of the basin. He ran the pink razor under the bath's faucet and nodded, returning to his handiwork. "I tried this new shaving cream," he admitted, "But so far I am disappointed. It smells alright, but it's not a lotion. I'm going to get dry skin," he frowned, twisting his leg so he could get a better angle to shave under his knee.

"He does that," Izzy heard Tarrow chuckle behind her. She spun to face him. He was leaning the doorway, his arms across his chest. For once, he was dressed normally, in jeans and a tight black tee shirt. His dark blonde hair was slightly tousled, his green eyes amused. He looked long, lean, and very much as if he was enjoying her confusion. He looked normal, she thought, and then mentally noted that normal was sexy on him. It was a shame he wasted his hotness in wizard robes. She sighed mentally. _Boys._

"Shaves his legs?" she said, raising one eyebrow. It didn't seem very likely, and yet there was Tommi, shaving away like nothing was the matter at all.

"He means I like to experiment," Tommi stated, "I'm discovering what it's like to be a girl," he gestured towards his bed, using the hand with the razor. "It turns out not to be that bad," he admitted, "Although high heels are deceptively hard to walk in."

Tarrow laughed lightly, nodding towards Izzy. "He's a method writer," the wizard explained, "He does what he can to get in the mind of the character. Right now I think his name is Sasha or something," he purred. Izzy looked back to Tommi, trying to decide if that made everything alright or not.

"Scarlet," the writer corrected him, "And it's a way of getting rid of writer's block. Some people find inspiration in beauty. Some find it in showers. Some by living it. Write what you know, they tell me," he stated, talking only to Izzy. She was smiling now, if only because her brain had finally registered that Tommi was wearing a purple floral-print dress with a ruffled bottom and a large bow in the back. He was right – if it hadn't been for the bow, the dress would have been cute. "Although," he added, "Now I have all three: the shower, the experience, and beauty," he murmured, staring into her eyes.

"Right!" she said suddenly, unsure why she was suddenly uncomfortable. She twisted away from him, back towards where Tarrow had been. He had removed himself from the doorway and was busy putting on his normal blue attire. She felt almost disappointed. It wasn't like she liked him or anything. It was just a shame to see his hotness hidden. Who doesn't like looking at hot people? "I was wondering if you knew where Grace was," she said, and was glad her voice didn't hold the same desperation she'd heard in it earlier.

Tarrow nodded, not looking up as he put on his gloves. "She's in the common room," he said, and by the time he was finished putting himself together, she was gone.

He was right: Grace was chatting with Will about the note, spread out along one of the couches. The brunette took one look at her friend and raised one eyebrow questioningly. Izzy sat down next to her, rubbing her temple. "I just had an epiphany," she declared.

"Speak," Grace said joyfully, sitting up and motioning for her friend to continue, "The masses must know."

"It's the strangest thing," Izzy acknowledged slowly, "But Tarrow's pretty hot."

xxxxxx

Thompson had never run so quickly in his life, the night slicing quick daggers against his skin. They were behind him, behind him, behind him.

He was panting. His heart was about to explode. In his hands, the yellow envelope dragged him ever downwards, it's fierce obligation burning in his skin.

In his wild fear, a grim smile crept across his face. So what if they got him? It wasn't like he had that much time left anyway. Heck, maybe they were doing him a favor.

He started to laugh.

xxxxxxx

Gold liquid. An eternity of floating. An eternity of falling.

She opened her eyes.

xxxxxxx

Tic, whirr, click.

"What," his voice was clipped, sharp, expectant.

"It's done," the dialer panted, trying to get under control, the phone pressed between their ear and their shoulder. The dialer was multitasking, ripping off leather gloves while shoving a hat on their head. Their eyes peered through the dirty windows of the narrow red phone booth, desperate, dark.

The response: that lovely sharp click of a phone being slammed down.

The dialer waited, checking the time on their new watch. It was a fine piece of machinery, although it might have been slightly stained. The seconds flew by, and then it was time.

Tic, whirr, click.

"911, what's your emergency?" her voice was bright, waiting.

The dialer paused, taking a breath. When they spoke, their voice was calm and even, as if they had never completed anything more strenuous than a quick walk.

"Hello," voice polished, sticky, sick, "I'm calling to report a murder."

X-X

**A.N: Sorry this is late/rushed! My sister had an unexpected trip to the emergency room, and asked me to be with her the whole time. I'm sorta her stand-in parent. Don't worry, she's getting better :) **

**These amazing people made:  
**

**Mi-Yeong Lee: kurochanwithwings**  
**Walter Garson: Arcanine Fan**

**If your character did not show up, it is because the chapters are super long. I figure this will now be a reoccurring theme, the "not everyone at once" thing.  
**

**Also I have no problem with the number thirteen. I hope you have no problem with a super rushed chapter :)**

**Take care.  
**


	14. Chapter 14

**A.N: No more O.C characters after this, sorry ): Also in case you are not aware, Frost will update on Fridays of every other week instead because schedules are not my friend.**

X-X

Mimi had never hallucinated before.

At least, she thought, not really. There was a spot in her memory, a distant blur of recognition that told her differently. She'd been young, five or six, and she'd had a fever that was trying to kill her. She remembered, vaguely, a boy next to her bedside with eyes like shards of glass and teeth like iron nails and beauty like an avenging angel. He had reached out to her, she knew, but he'd smelled like dust and rotting fruit, and she'd screamed and scrambled across the bed, her body rejecting the boy with such fierce horror that her head had spun. The boy had frowned, disappearing. Her fever broke in the next hour. Secretly Mimi had always believed that little boy had been Death, wrapped in his false humanity. Something had always told her that touching the figure at her bedside would have been her last action. She just _knew._

But in recent years, when she read books or watched movies where people hallucinated, she'd decided that she had no idea what it was like at all. The boy was a memory through stained glass – half distorted by fever and half by time. She'd always imagined the feeling of hallucination to be the feeling of falling mixed with a slight dizziness, or the sort of touch of panic you get when you search for your homework and it isn't there. She had assumed that whatever appeared in front of her face would be so unrealistic that she would know, instinctively, what was happening.

It didn't feel any different. That was the problem. Instead of making her motion-sick or afraid or uncomfortable, it just felt like reality. She wasn't even sure it was happening. After all, she thought, she didn't have much to base the idea of hallucination off of. Were there steps you had to take? Was there some secret code word to tell you what you were seeing was false?

Honestly she wouldn't have known, but for some reason, it was the fact that it was _Him_ that gave it away. It wasn't the boy from her fever dream: it was a man that was too real, a man who haunted her nightmares, who had stole her childhood, who had broke her into a thousand glittering pieces, just ice against the wind. Looking at Him had always made the scars on her back twinge painfully, and yet here He was, perfectly calm, and her back had no reaction what so ever.

He was crunching on an apple and watching her from where she was curled up on her bed, her arms tight around her knees, her light brown eyes staring at him with childlike horror. He was as she remembered him: dark hair that settled thinly across his scalp, dark eyes that were so filled with malicious intent that they looked sleepy from the weight of all that loathing. He was neither good-looking nor was he young, but he _commanded_ somehow; as if the very air currents should bend to his will.

"Hello, Mimi," he purred, and his voice sounded like she was underwater, horribly twisted and deep. "I've come to take you back with me."

That was it. That was when the sharp, glittering fear hit her. She wanted to throw up, to throw something at him, to throw herself to her death. She hissed at herself to ignore the hallucination, but it didn't matter. She panted and tried to stay under control, but some faint part of her knew that she was instead whimpering like a caught animal.

She was dimly aware someone else walked into the room, someone she knew. He'd led her around school when she'd first arrived. His name was Patches and he smelled like the moonlight, his soft-spoken patience drawing Mimi to him almost automatically. She looked at him and tried to ask _Do you see him?_ but she just moaned and shivered, her nails digging into her palm, fighting for normalcy. Patches opened his mouth, and by way of explanation, screamed, a horrible poisoned arrow of sound, a sound like nails in a wine jar, like tires screeching, like a whip cracking restlessly across her back, like darkness, like waiting to see if her parents loved her enough to save her.

She cried out too, slapping her hands over her ears, tears jumping into her eyes. It didn't help. The sound was in her head, too, and it burst brilliant white against her eyes. She was vaguely aware she was still screaming when the walls started to drip, when people started to walk right off the paint and frown at her, their glossy white just-dried frowns a perfect match of His face. Their hollow-paint eyes stared at her with what might have been envy before there were too many of them, too many, a wave of horrible, twisted white. She shrieked, fighting as it crashed against her, suffocating her, turning her around and around and around. All the while she could hear them singing to her, a pretty high-voiced serenade of vicious voices, telling her a lullaby she couldn't quite remember.

She was a flightless thing, and yet she was in the air. A warm body pressed against her, picking her up, carrying her. Beneath them, the wave of white crashed restlessly, its boon of blood reneged. She turned her head, trying to see what angel was walking them across the water, but the harder she stared the more her vision blurred, until at last it was just His face, just his copper-sure smile and his black-ringed eyes.

_Don't worry_, came the hourglass screech inside of her head, _It will only last a minute._

She screamed, watching in terror as her vision turned purple and then, quickly and without fanfare, a horrible falling black.

xxxxxxx

Patches bit his thumbnail and stared at her body, wondering if he was really hindering more than helping. She looked peaceful again, like her normal wry self, but he knew it might not last. Whatever had caused the hallucinations was starting to shut her down. He frowned and reached over, tucking her in a little bit tighter. He could imagine, for an instant, that she was sleeping and not under sedatives, her long black hair spread out in an inky splotch behind her, messy and knotted from the way she'd torn at herself during the vision. Her entire body betrayed the reality of the incident: she'd nearly torn herself apart in her hysteria, unaware that she was hurting herself so badly, and it showed in furious red lines against her skin. He'd carried her to the nurse, knowing he wouldn't be able to help, but she'd certainly fought him, screaming and crying and slashing him with her fingernails until she had passed out.

He frowned and adjusted the crisp white covers again, trying not to look at the tubes that connected her to the bed. They made him faintly queasy, like he was recalling a memory that was best left untouched. Despite his hatred of hospitals – although he couldn't remember anyone ever particularly _liking_ hospitals – he stayed with her, holding her hand, waiting for her eyes to flutter open, for her quick sassy personality to come back.

They'd become friends by accident. She'd been searching for her pokemon, in her desperation so urgent that she'd walked right into him. When she saw he was an upperclassman, she'd given him a wry smile and announced, "Of course I'd let you show me around," taking his arm and laughing. He'd liked how chatty she was, a mixture of intelligent wit and a shy, quiet kindness that he'd caught in her eyes once in awhile. She didn't mind that he didn't talk. She picked up on his body language more than other people did, and she could usually guess what he was thinking. He liked that, that she didn't try to get him to talk. Although, he thought with a grin, she talked enough for the both of them.

He sighed and sat back in the black chair, running his fingers over the copper accents. Restless, his palms searched other things: a frayed hem, a shoelace, his black hair. He didn't like not being able to help her, but it wasn't like he'd been suddenly granted magical powers of the awesome nature. He was just a normal guy, more or less.

"How's she doing?" the voice was light and soft, and somehow filled with the knowledge that it wouldn't be answered. Patches didn't turn to look at her. She knew he was listening, even if now his hands were under his chin, his light almost-hazel eyes watching the freshman's sleep. The chair next to him was filled with a slim, tall figure. Her body warmth was so familiar to him that it was like someone had handed him a stack of pancakes and the guarantee that everything was going to be all right. He sighed and folded his left hand into her upturned right one, feeling like children in a fairy tale, clasping their hands against the oncoming darkness.

"I heard what happened," she murmured, running her soft fingers over his callused ones, "It's just terrible. She's so young. Do they know what happened?"

Patches just shook his head, and then tiled it to one side. He pulled his hand away, making a fist with his left hand and pushing down with his right. He paused and then pointed outwards and drew a horizontal line with his fingertip before putting one finger to his head. She translated mentally: _Stress…they think._

"You don't think that?" she breathed, looking around them. It wasn't likely anyone else spoke sign language, but she had to be sure. The room was empty except for her and her friend and the girl who had supposedly collapsed under all the pressure only three weeks into school.

Patches frowned a little, making the sign for "they" before swiping his right hand over his mouth from left to right across his lips, as if he was trying to brush something out from under his nose. _They are liars._

"What do you think it is?" she asked, her green eyes wide. They were so familiar to Patches: that wonderful spark that she held in them made him think of stars.

He responded by extending his left hand, palm up. He put his middle finger in the center; his index finger extended, and moved it like he was trying to crush a bug on his skin. She had to think before she recognized it. _Poison._

She gasped a little – she couldn't help it. Patches was there when it happened. He would know. While the doctors at Frost were, without exception, the best, they were also so loyal to the idea that nothing could go wrong that things often did. They had a tendency to overlook the obvious answer and go for the easy one in cases like this, and it made her skin itch to think about it. She shook her head fiercely and sighed, slipping her palm back into his. It wasn't the sort of romantic hand-holding nonsense every other teenager loved so much. It was two friends, holding the other person down.

She sighed and leaned back, resting her head on the wall, her blonde hair streaking down her body. "Patches," she sighed, "You should really get something to eat. You'll do her no good if you starve to death," but behind the chiding was a friendly, concerned sort of love. Patches didn't look at her like most boys did: all slobbering desire or tortured, relentless hatred. Patches looked at her and saw _her_.

Restless as always, he was signing something in her palm. She didn't have to look to know what it was. He'd done it a million times. _Carmen,_ he said, making his fingers dance when his body couldn't. "Patches," she sang back, the same way she always did, as if he'd said her name out loud. It was a game to them, to see how long they could keep up one-sided conversations before the people around them started to worry about the blonde's mental health. Half of their concern, she knew, was from the fact that Patches was always looking away from her, always watching the dust shift through a sunbeam or the grass bending in the wind. It didn't look like he paid her any attention at all. But that was just Patches, she knew, and when she thought about his calm distraction, it made her smile. She liked having someone who didn't peer at her with unashamed abandon.

She and Patches had become friends about halfway through their freshman orientation. Their ordeals had lasted slightly longer than a week, but by the time the two of them met, the school was suddenly poster paint and glitter glue. She remembered the way it had happened: she'd left a book back in one of the art rooms, and had turned around to get it. She remembered clutching it to her chest, her eyes down as another student had rounded the bend. She'd been wearing a pretty white shirt and skinny jeans, her blue hoodie tied around her waist. The boy had seen her, and had stopped her. She waited for the usual request for love or help or the time, the way boys always seemed to start their conversations with her. Instead he had asked her why she was the spawn of evil. At first she had almost laughed – it seemed the sort of statement one would say jokingly – but the look on the boy's face had wracked her heart with fear. She had begun to move surreptitiously towards the windows, figuring if things got bad she could break one. But he didn't follow her. He just stood there and informed her that she, with her demonic beauty, was the reason for things like suicide and murder. He explained that it was sinful, just sinful the way she tempted all boys around her, that she was a horrible witch and a terrible mistake, and that, had she been his daughter, he would have drowned her in a bathtub or slit her wrists. He told her that she would be doing the world a favor by leaving it, and that, in his opinion, she was more than qualified to attempt suicide.

That was when Patches, quiet, calm Patches, arrived out of nowhere and punched the boy in the face so hard that Carmen had heard the crack, loud and clear. The boy had gone down mid-sentence, and Patches had watched. He had looked up and sent her a crooked half-smile, as if waiting for punishment, an angel waiting for a rebuke. But she had never been so grateful to anyone. She remembered the way he had looked at the boy's unconscious body: disgust and pity. Absently Patches had signed, _It is people like you that give religion a bad name_, and she had agreed, watching the way the sun hit the gold Mew rune around his neck. He had been so startled that she understood that his mouth had hung open, and she'd seen the reason Patches never talked: half of his tongue was gone, ripped out of his mouth, leaving a horrible, twisted scar. She had expected to feel revulsion, but instead only felt sympathy. She'd gone over and slipped her hand in his, just the way she'd done a million times since then. It was the two of them against the rest of the universe.

And they were unstoppable.

She was broken out of her reverie by Patches motioning with a closed hand towards his mouth. She laughed. _Food, Carmen_, she could hear him say. She was never sure where the voice she'd assigned him came from, but it was sweet, playful, soft. She chuckled and stood up, brushing down her long dress-shirt, checking the red tie, pulling up her jeggings and shifting her boots a little higher up her leg. Patches watched her with the sort of interest one has when nothing else in the room is moving, his shifting-color eyes holding none of the lustful yearning she was so used to. Her clothes properly adjusted, she turned to leave, looking at her friend once more. He was staring at the sleeping girl, his eyes narrowed, searching. Maybe he was placing her in a dance number. Maybe he was wondering if she spoke sign language too. Maybe…Carmen paused and then _knew_, without a doubt, he was thinking about poison. She suppressed a shudder, as if the September chill had settled into the large, warm building.

She shimmed down into the lobby, retrieving her pokemon from the woman behind the desk. Absently, Carmen complimented the woman's nail polish. It was bright, bright red, the color of fresh watermelon or a sunset after the rain. The woman flashed her a brilliant, knowing smile, and winked, and Carmen had grinned back, feeling like they were sharing a secret that she wasn't sure of.

As soon as they were out of the hospital that was supposed to be only a nurse's office, Carmen let her Xatu out of the ball. Jean was the best companion to travel with, being capable of flying, and Carmen liked the psychic pokemon's deep, thoughtful gaze. Maybe, she thought, as the two of them headed for the cafeteria, that was one of the reasons she had liked Patches to start with: he had the same distant awareness.

The Xatu keened a little as it spun around her, and Carmen pulled herself inwards, trying to best the cold. She wished she had thought to bring a jacket. It had been warm in the morning, but the fog had brought in a chill she was well acquainted with. By Novemeber she would think fifty degrees was a nice day. By December that number would drop as low as thirty.

She made record time, jogging to keep warm, crossing the campus through the quicker ways that all upperclassmen learn. She recalled Jean a little apologetically. While pokemon were allowed everywhere on the weekends, no one liked having a foreign beast whirl around their head. The agreement that flying and particularly loud or large pokemon stay out of the cafeteria was a silent one, unlike how the hospital willingly displayed the request of keeping pokemon in their balls. Although, Carmen thought, that _did_ make sense. After all, hospitals were supposed to be clean.

She opened the door and walked instead into a wall of iron. She began to apologize, grinning at her mistake, but whoever it was had already left. She made a face at his back. That, she thought, is what you learn at Frost: how to voice your opinion.

She smiled at the irony and went to go grab a fruit cup. It was munching time.

xxxxxx

Mika brushed at his armor self-consciously after the girl had walked into him. She'd been a pretty, slight little thing. He'd never met her before, but that wasn't really saying much anymore. Ever since the end of orientation, the upperclassmen had far outnumbered their younger counterparts. Suddenly Mika had started feeling very, very small.

He frowned and let Zulu out of his ball, now that there wasn't anyone around for the little ball of fur to terrorize. The Umbreon seemed to reach the conclusion that with no one around, Mika could use the full force of his chiding, and decided to trot loyally at his master's heels.

Mika set for the woods. He needed to train his body into shape. All he could see in his head was the same memory: Felix, quick, quiet, an impossibility as he disappeared and reappeared easily, and then Tarrow, and the startling sweet blister of pain. At the thought of it, Mika winced, gingerly touching the spot on his chest where a large garish bruise used to make its presence known. It had been a fair hit, and a good one, too. Even though it was almost a full two weeks later, he could still see the last traces of the blue-green flower on his skin, and if he breathed too deeply it ached unpleasantly.

They were about thirty meters into the woods when Zulu started to growl. Mika wasn't particularly surprised – the Umbreon had probably picked up the smell of a wild pokemon. But the quiet, fierce growl turned deep, until it was a low-throated mumble of thunder, half choked and very dangerous. Mika sent the beast a startled look. Zulu, impossibly, sounded _scared_. Mika bit his lip and wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword on his back. He could fight whatever was out there, he knew, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Felix still flipped forwards in bored destruction.

A branch in front of him snapped, its crack echoing in his ears.

"Come out!" he cried, hating the desperation in his voice. Zulu was cowering – Zulu, _cowering_ – behind his legs, the guttural note still emanating from his fierce muzzle. Mika gripped the handle, waiting, his whole body tense as the trees protested whatever was coming for him.

It was a boy, dusting his hands off mildly and sending Mika a quick grin, lightly tossing his brown hair away from his eyes. Zulu's song of horror rose to a fever pitch, a quivering hum of terror. Mika waited for the boy's face to drip off, or for the slim shoulders to sprout wings, or for the world to crumble into tiny pieces. But nothing happened. There was an awkward, thick pause, punctuated by the Umbreon's growl. The boy ran his hand through his hair and then held it out. "I'm Jason," he said, and Mika only felt anticlimax. He didn't know what he had expected – maybe something vicious Sergeant Death, or Master of Darkness – but "Jason" was not a name Mika associated with fear or anything particularly horrible at all. He shook the boy's hand stiffly, dropping the palm as quickly as he could. Jason sent a worried look towards Zulu.

"Is he ok?" he asked, sounding somewhere between concerned and amused. The Umbreon responded by slowly stepping forwards, as if he didn't wish to face this monster but would do so and die in the glory of battle. His short fur stood out all around his body like a black halo, his teeth ivory in their snarl.

Mika knew he was supposed to admonish the beast, but he couldn't bring himself to. "Whatcha doing out here?" the knight drawled, trying for nonchalant, "Seeing fairies?" He took a deep breath, letting the slight pain in his chest flare for an instant. Sarcasm he could do. Apparently when one was frightened without purpose, it was possible to make offhanded comments about other people's sketchy location choices.

"If you're implying I was doing drugs," Jason yawned, crouching and holding out one hand for Zulu to sniff, "I'd say no, of course not. But on the matter of actually _seeing_ fairies, I'd have to tell you that it's much too cold up here for them. You're more likely to find pixies. I'd say elves, but they don't really appreciate Kanto overly, on account of the lack of virgin sacrifices." Zulu had gotten about two feet in all this time. In a few steps he would be close enough to bite Jason, but the boy didn't seem at all alarmed by the furious moan coming out of the very powerful body.

Mika tried for a laugh and found he couldn't. "And is the species name for these pixies LSD by any chance?" he purred, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He didn't understand it: Jason was a slight, willowy boy. The fight would be quick, ruthless, and Mika would win. But, in his head, all Mika could see was a tall boy with black hair and eyes like copper glass.

Jason, watching as Zulu got progressively slower in his approach, gave a derisive snort. "Don't be stupid. Their species name is _Mors immature_. Except Tinkerbelle, of course. She is purely _Confide nemini_. You've got to watch out for the difference. That's why I never joke about the fey, Mika. They are nasty little creatures when angered. Just like your Zulu here," he smiled, his eyes on the black ball of fur.

The hair on the back of Mika's neck rose. His chest tightened and his fingers, restless, worked their way over to the knives in his belt. "I don't remember telling you my name," he hissed, suddenly positive that he would take this boy before the boy took him. The fear in his chest screamed at him. He swallowed it down. There was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. Mentally, some part of the knight's body rolled his eyes. Yeah, like _Mika_ was an average name. Something Jason had said earlier was tickling the back of his brain, itching away hungrily and hopelessly. Right then, though, Mika had bigger things to worry about. Like a boy who could read minds, for instance.

Jason looked up, an amused sort of sheepishness on his face. "Really, Mika? I'm shocked, and, frankly, hurt," he stated, putting his free hand over his heart. "I thought we were going to get married. It just goes to show: never trust what you see over the internet."

"Shut up," Mika demanded, wishing his body would just _listen_ to him for once, instead of standing there like an idiot, halfway between defenseless and armed. He'd always been fine with fear – it was one of a warrior's greatest weapons – but this paralyzing, irrational horror burned at him, coursing through his veins with adamant refusal.

Jason stretched out his hand again towards the shivering Umbreon, grinning. "Mika, I'm in your fighting class. Honestly, what did you think? Yeah, by the way, _I read minds._ Honestly I had no idea. I can imagine coming out to the rest of the world: hey, mom and dad, here's something you don't know, I'm a psychic. Don't worry, it's not contagious, but it is your fault I was born like this. What? Did you ask me where I learned this fascinating tidbit of life-changing news? I'll tell you, parents of mine: it's because I remembered someone's name," he stated, and then paused, as if thinking it over before adding, "I suppose after that there would be hugging and other frivolities. Perhaps champagne. And I suppose I'd have to change my name to something like Edward Sullen-pants."

Mika tried to relax, he did. He even offered Jason a small, heartless smile. He thought back to his class. It'd only been three weeks, and he hadn't really learned anyone's name except for Felix and Tarrow. When he searched through his mental directory, he figured a slight, unexceptional boy with brown hair dusting his eyes would probably have gone unnoticed. It was possible. Any other time, Mika would have laughed and apologized, maybe even made friends. Jason seemed like a guy who knew how to joke. But the unexplained fear was there. He tried to convince himself it wasn't real, but the desire to leave, to leave _now,_ was banging away against his ribcage. And in the back of his mind, something was whirring away at high speed, something the boy had said, something a little more off, something that burned slowly, like a teakettle over a fire.

"Oh," was all Mika had to say. Mika, the great and mighty, killer of men and protector of justice. "Zulu, that's enough. Come on, we're losing daylight," he said it wearily, snapping his fingers at the gold-and-black bristle of fur. Zulu seemed overjoyed at the idea of complying, darting over to his master and sending more growls like rusty chain-link fences up into the air. Jason stood, evidentially unimpressed. He smiled towards the freshmen, ducking his head as Mika said, "We have to go train now," in a dull voice like an open cardboard box.

"See you, _uccisore di angeli._ Watch the pixies don't get you," Jason grinned, and Mika turned to walk away, the foreign language burning in his mind. Something about that phrase was too familiar, too sharp, too pointed.

And then he knew, remembered it in a sudden flash of muddy recollection, as if he'd been staring at a painting for some time and had forgotten what the whole looked like. "_Uccisore di angeli_" had been a phrase one of his old masters had used on him, in a voice like sandpaper and rough wood. There was always such sorrow in the statements, but Mika heard them only when he had accomplished something new and terrifying like taking on ten men while blindfolded. He would look up to the wizened old man, waiting for praise or recognition, but he always got the same three words, like black tar on white fur. When Mika had turned twelve, the man had been on his deathbed. In the hours before Arceus took him, Mika had asked him what the phrase meant. His teacher had smiled, slow and sad and had told him, "_Slayer of angels_" for that was what his teaching had turned the little boy into: a horrible, twisted thing that knew of nothing but slaughter and hatred, nothing but how to tear a man's heart from his ribs and where to plunge a dagger in.

And then something else clicked, like an arrow breaking across his mind. The idea was brought to a startling, horrible shriek as Mika's four years in Latin class caught up with him. Jason had named Tinkerbelle "_Confide nemini_." They'd studied the idiomatic version:_Ne humanus crede._ Jason's words, literally translated, meant, "Trust no one." Mika bit his lip and forced himself to focus. First of all, it wasn't like he was the only person to ever take Latin, and wasn't like Jason even got the idiom correct. That fact, for some reason, calmed Mika down a lot. Jason wasn't stalking him. Jason didn't know anything. Maybe the Italian phrase was pretty popular for all Mika was aware. He took a deep breath, smiling down at Zulu. He didn't know why he freaked out. Jason was just another kid from his class. He should really spend some time getting to know people instead of wandering off into the woods, spooked by a little foreign language.

Zulu was still shaking, and Mika leant down, giving him an affectionate stroke. Poor thing. He hadn't even recognized Jason. He was probably overtired or something. Maybe Jason had smelled like something Umbreons instinctively hated. It was possible.

And then, as if the teakettle in his head had finally came to a boil, everything hit Mika at once in an ascending shriek of knowledge.

Zulu hadn't recognized Jason because he'd never _met_ Jason. They weren't allowed to take pokemon into the classrooms, and his fighting class was no exception. Mika had never even talked to Jason, much less brought up the Umbreon. And yet _Jason had known Zulu's name_.

Mika spun, his sword already drawn, but where there had been a boy there was instead air.

xxxxxxx

Jason was nothing if patient. After leaving Mika's side, he went as far as he dared before climbing a pine tree high enough for the lower branches to conceal him. The limb he stationed himself on also provided a good enough view of the freshman. Jason yawned, watching the way the trees rustled, showing where the knight had decided that training wasn't such a good idea and that it was really time for dinner or something.

He waited until Mika left the forest and then fifteen minutes more before dropping down to the ground, rubbing the tree sap from his palms. He sighed, pressing his fingers to a large, shallow gash on his left arm. He was bleeding pretty badly, but he wasn't too concerned. The satin warmth ran down to his fingertips as he padded deeper into the woods. He knew he was leaving a trail, but that was the point. He smiled, pausing, waiting for his scent to rub off on the world around him. _Blood of my blood, return to the Earth._ Where had he heard that? He had to think before he knew it was said at funerals, from the family to the deceased. It was part of Mew's prayer. As he walked, he recited it in his mind.

_Blood of my blood, return to the Earth._

He followed the path Rhyme had made for him, letting his body wind through the broken branches.

_Flesh of my flesh, in Fire find mirth._

There it was: hidden inside of a tree trunk and covered in leaves. The manila folder was smooth against his prying fingers. He paused and pressed his arm against the hiding space, sucking in a breath as warm flat pain sparked along his nerves. The folder was empty, but the entire point of his trip was to fill it up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tight roll of papers within, smoothing them out and slipping them in between the covers. They looked bulky and responsible that way, and he grinned. They were his report to Rhyme about the progression of the rebellion. Not a single word in it was true. It had been an unreasonable amount of fun writing it. There was something to be said about typing "There were three mangoes. I ate them all. Now there are no mangoes. Delta Alpha Stollos Winnebago. Repeat: Delta Absh Zeta Weaver."

_Heart of my heart, know wisdom in Air._

He walked back the way he had come, counting fourteen trees before looking up. There, hidden higher in the trees, was a blue backpack. He sighed, twisting his arm to look at the forever-long gash. He sighed. While it wasn't bleeding as badly as before, but the red covered him like a tight crackling glove and it had a sort of absent soreness that got on his nerves. He wanted to go back to his room, clean it up, bandage it and then complain about it more times than absolutely necessary. He closed his eyes before reaching up towards the lowest branch.

_Love of my love, in Water learn care_.

When he was back on the ground, he searched the backpack. It had a map, two pairs of fresh clothes, a sandwich, a knife, a pokeball and a first aid kit. Jason peered at the map until he got his bearings and then set for the river, all the while crumbling small bits of his sandwich onto the ground.

_Forever I am you, and you are me._

He reached the river and took a deep breath. He hated what was coming next. Of course _he_ had to be the one to draw the short straw. He sat down and worried away a good portion of the sandwich into little bits, frowning when the crumbs got on him. He threw a few larger pieces down as an extra measure, and then, for the heck of it, put some in his mouth too. It was mostly bread, but someone had put grass in it too. He groaned and resisted the urge to spit it out. No one spat out a sandwich they had been supposedly eating for the last five minutes.

_Forever rule we the kingdoms three._

Running his tongue over his teeth, he pawed through the back until his fingers brushed the metal of the pokeball. He fumbled it out of the sack, pressing the button and letting a Grovyle join his little sandwich party. "You must be Rhythm," Jason grinned, "Pleased to meet you. I'm sure your trainer told you all sorts of nice things about me. Don't believe a single word."

_One kingdom for the living make_

The Grovyle ignored him, positioning himself in a furious battle position, as if he was a large wild pokemon ready for a battle. "I've never really done this before," Jason admitted, rising and picking tiny morsels of food off his shirt, "Do you suppose we should use protection?"

_One for peace and humanity's sake _

Rhythm did not appreciate the joke, evidently. He began to charge Night Slash with a certain calm assumption that made Jason feel very small. He watched as the blue-purple energy dashed across the space between them. It passed the boy so closely that Jason felt the wind across his skin. It was not the sort of thing that made him comfortable. "Good aim," the filmmaker said shakily, "Let's not ever do that again, though. I suppose this is the part when I run in fear, throwing the sandwich behind me?"

_And one in the heart of sin_

Rhythm twisted his head to the side and keened, watching Jason as if he expected a boon for his excellent display of power. "Here, you silly thing. You eat while I display the effects of a particularly horrible attack," Jason said wearily, throwing him what was left of the sandwich while picking up his backpack and clawing through it for the knife. Rhythm was too domesticated to cause any real harm, but a wild, hungry Grovyle would have torn into him with no hesitation. He swung the bag onto his shoulder, wishing he was calmer.

_A place for all my kin._

Shaking, Jason ripped off his shirt and tied it around his thigh, shivering a little against the chill in the air. It didn't matter where the blood came from, but it had to come from somewhere. Jason took a deep breath and then slashed at his calf muscle hungrily, hissing when it bit through his skin. It didn't hurt badly at first, half from shock and half from the use of the tourniquet, but it itched in such a way that made Jason uniquely uncomfortable. He rubbed some of the new blood into the dirt, making a face as it got on him before he hobbled over to the river. He waded into it carefully, sucking in his breath sharply as the cold water hit his new cut. It wasn't particularly deep, only up to his knees, and the current wasn't too bad, but it was about two degrees above freezing.

_Forever will you be my children, forever will you be by my side_

"Alright, your turn," he murmured, and fished around in his pocket for his own pokeball. The Swellow took into the air with a joyful cry, circling his master will glee. "Come here, Cyclone," he called, gritting his teeth against the way his leg was starting to feel. He'd left a blood trail, alright. The Swellow chirped and came closer, watching as Jason plucked a loose feather and tossed it onto the riverbank. "Listen, Cyclone, I need you to fly back to the dorm, ok? No getting into fights on the way, and _no_ stealing hats," he warned, and the little ball of feathers dipped one wing, sailing in a perfect loop back to where it knew they lived. Jason looked down, watching his blood swirl and turn pink in the rushing water.

_Blood of my blood, return soon, and the darkness hide._

"So, Rhythm," Jason said, feeling slightly uncomfortable as he took off his pants, "I'll see your master gets your pokeball. He told me to tell you…uh…" Jason had to pause and look at the note on his hand, "Domácí."

The Grovyle looked up from where it had been licking off the crumbs of the sandwich, his eyes bright. He chirped and rustled his wings, making a familiar humming sound before bounding off to do whatever Jason had just told him to. Jason shivered, bundling his pants into the bag and taking out the fresh shirt and shorts. He rolled his eyes when he saw them, wishing they were thick, good clothes instead of flimsy material.

Sighing, he awkwardly put them on, transferring all of his pocket debris while wishing his life was easier. He turned deeper into the woods, his teeth chattering and his legs were losing the ability to feel. That was, he thought, a plus. He could barely feel the spreading sting around his calf. He wrapped his arms around his body and trudged forwards through the water, against the current, cursing all that was holy.

By the time he found the marked area, it was twilight and he was wishing he had eaten the grass sandwich. His legs had gone completely numb about ten minutes in, and now instead he had the unpleasant feeling of walking on swollen stumps, every sharp rock a sliver of glass. He waded onto shore, calling Rhyme's name dryly, wanting to go home. He sighed and figured that being the bait had been worth it. They were going to let him into the meeting.

"What's the secret password?" Rhyme called, and Jason rolled his eyes.

"Justin Bieb-ster has a voice like a small girl, but his music is surprisingly easy to listen to, despite the public's backlash to his childish looks and amazing hair flow." Jason said tiredly, watching the way the bushes rustled, showing Rhyme's positioning.

"Justin _Bieber_ is neither a legitimate musician nor is he a password. Furthermore, he cannot rap to save his life. Also, you cannot tell a violin to 'sink or swim.' It's a violin. It's not going to listen to you. Moreover, they float. They're wood. Meanwhile, while his gains worldwide fame – or should I say, _infamy_ – indie bands like 'We The Kings,' who exemplify a different, creative sort of rock, are squashed under the world's heels," Rhyme spat. Justin Bieber was sort of a sore spot for him.

Jason could have just stopped at that point and given him the password, but he was tired, annoyed, and his leg burned. "You're just angry because you're jealous of his superior lyrical writing capabilities."

Rhyme burst out of where he had been crouching. It was one of the few times Jason had ever seen him truly angry, but he just started changing into the newer, thicker clothes at the bottom of the bag. Rhyme hissed, "The boy begins a song with 'She's indecisive; she can't decide.' Is he even aware that 'indecisive' means 'inability to decide?' No, no he is not. He is literally the destruction of modern language. Just because the words fit a certain cadence doesn't give you a pass to be perfectly redundant. Furthermore, on the matter of his hair, _he_ has a team of well-trained, well-paid stylists while people with fourteen times his talent are _starving._ Not to mention his total disregard of things like, say, my eardrums. Just because you can pump it through a bass does _not_ qualify it as music," he growled, waving his hands, his fair face going red from the force of his anger.

"Seraphim," Jason laughed, "Arceus, Rhyme, after all the time you've known me, how could you think I'd actually defend_ Justin Bieber_?"

Rhyme looked taken aback, but then a smile set on his face, watching as Jason bent down to use the first aide kit. He couldn't leave a trace of himself after this. It was more than important. It was the linchpin of the whole ordeal. "Oh," the photographer said, "I thought you were serious. You said it so…seriously."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, I'm in love with a twelve-year-old boy," he said, following Rhyme into the forest, "I don't know how you haven't noticed this by now," he said, handing Rhyme back his Grovyle's ball before he forgot.

"I think he's actually sixteen," Rhyme noted, climbing a tree. Jason followed slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg. The two of them scrambled awkwardly from one branch to another, sometimes making horrible, frightening jumps that they shouldn't have landed. After these, Jason usually found himself murmuring Mew's prayer or making a promise to be more religious in the future. There was something to be said about dashing perilously from trunk to trunk, even in the tightly packed woods. "Of course," Rhyme added sometime later, panting, "Even a young age doesn't excuse his music."

"_Rhyme_," Jason laughed, "Drop it. I know, you hate the Bieb-master. I, personally, hate people who chew their gum too loudly, dirt, and flowers with thorns."

Rhyme, slipping down the trunk, turned to look at him. "You hate roses? Who hates roses?"

"It's just," Jason said as they picked their way across the forest floor again, "The purpose of flowers is to be pretty, to invite, to die quickly in a blaze of glory. Nobody likes a bully. Flowers that snipe your fingers are bullies," Jason explained, looking up when Rhyme came to a halt.

In front of him was a small clearing with a wide, haphazard log cabin. Rhyme put his fingers to his mouth and made a sharp, twirling whistle like a Swellow greeting its master. There was silence and then a low, curling howl as if a Houndoom had scented something horrible. Rhyme grinned, murmuring to Jason, "That's Caen. She says come in. The meeting probably about to start. We were waiting for you, of course," he announced, before darting out of the bushes and dancing up to the door.

"Seraphim," he called, and the door swung open to a tall boy holding an ice pack over his indigo eyes. Rhyme winced sympathetically when he saw. "Hey, Thompson. That black eye still got you? I told you not to run. No one ever listens to me. Would lives be easier if I was listened to? Yes, yes they would be. I got Jason here, didn't I?"

Thompson looked past the short boy to the brown-haired one, raising one eyebrow. "Well, you look horrible. I am ashamed to call myself injured next to the likes of you. Goodness, mate, did you have a run-in with something horrible? Rabid fangirls, perhaps?"

A head appeared in the doorframe, amber eyes curious and gleeful. "That's probably going to get infected," Felix noted, staring at the gash on Jason's arm. "You would die in twelve days, like an angel back to heaven."

Thompson rolled his eyes and sort of folded the other two inside, declaring, "Don't mind him, he's just angry because I refused to sleep with him. I told him that I have a headache. Personally, I don't think he bought it."

Jason laughed and sent a look to see how Felix took the statement, but the boy just nodded placidly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "He's right. I didn't believe it. No one gets a headache that quickly. Maybe if he didn't spend so much time wishing he had a girlfriend…Anyway, welcome to our little clan," he purred, leading them down a tight hallway with a dirt floor and a single threadbare red carpet. He turned a corner and shepherded them into the room lazily while saying, "Note that I am the sole reason for the furniture, like glory giving back."

Jason's eyes widened. The room was about the size of a large living room, its dirt floor covered in assortment of thick carpets, an indiscriminate quilt of colors. In the center was a large onyx table with different chairs around it, some black, some red, some blue. Most of the chairs were filled with people, but a few chatted on a couch or spread themselves on the floor. The room had a sort of cozy warm randomness to it that made Jason feel safe without reason. The light streamed in through windows that were hewn from the walls and covered in what looked like plastic that had been melted together and beaten until transparent, giving the room a stained-glass hue, coloring the conversations that filtered through it.

"You stole it," Thompson said to Felix, "I hardly think that counts as supplying us with furniture. I am pretty certain that it is considered a felony instead."

"I supplied it plenty," Felix retorted, before letting out a sharp whistle. The entire room quieted, everyone swiveling their heads to look at him. "He's here," he called, "We can start."

Suddenly everyone was on their feet, jostling for a chair. There wasn't any real order to it – people just sat where they wanted to. Jason plopped down with a tall girl on his left who looked like she could rip his throat open with her finely manicured nails. Thompson and Felix sat across from him, arguing about Felix's thievery.

"I stole it from multiple locations, though," Felix yawned, "So it's not like I completely ruined someone's life. Maybe set them back a little bit, but not horribly."

"Stealing less than you could have is still stealing," Thompson disputed, nodding to someone who had greeted him.

"I got away with it though, didn't I? I pinned it on gang violence. The police finally had something real to track those guys down. In a way, I was actually helping my society."

"Framing someone for your crime does not nullify it's illegality _and_ is considered a felony in most first-world countries."

The girl to the right of Jason, one with pretty brown hair and a brilliant smile, quipped in his ear, "You know they're not actually sleeping together, right?"

He gave her a startled look. "What?"

She laughed, "It's what they do. You're never really sure if they're in love or they're worst enemies. Its how best friends are, you know? But the both of them are straight. Well. I'm not actually positive about Felix. Who knows what that boy likes?"

Jason watched the two of them get into a pathetic slap fight, both of them whining and leaning away from their flailing hands. Within the next instant they had called a truce before starting up another debate. There was something secret in the glances they sent each other, as if they'd lived their whole lives together and could communicate with their eyes alone. They acted like brothers.

"It's so sad," the girl said, so quietly Jason didn't hear her, "You can tell how much Thompson cares for Felix. And that boy will never, ever reciprocate the feeling. Sure, the two of them are thick as thieves, but Thompson lives under the assumption that one day Felix will get bored and just walk away. And the worst part is that Felix would feel no guilt about it. Felix wouldn't care at all."

Jason frowned at this statement, watching the way the two interacted. She was right: while there was genuine affection from Thompson, Felix emanated a sort of calm approval that was not the sort of thing you expected to see from someone's best friend.

"I'm Torrie, by the way," she said, holding out a hand for him to shake. She scanned the table quickly, and seeing that everyone was seated properly she called, "Alright then, first order of business. Our Jason is now _officially_ part of the resistance. Let's give him a warm welcome." Instantly the table burst into cheers, and Jason blushed as a few boys gave off low whistles. Torrie grinned. "The poor boy had to be the bait. We've all been there. Given how he is coated in blood, I think he did a fantastic job." This was greeted with more applause and several murmured sympathies. Torrie sat back, evidently finished.

One by one, people stood up, giving their report on small rebellions. Jason thought it had a weird structure to it: while there were no leaders, several times people would defer to another person before speaking. Once or twice it dissolved into side chatter and chaos, but eventually somebody would speak up and get them all back on track. By the time they had finished the meeting, new instructions had been handed out, Jason had learned that the girl to his left was named Caen and the closest thing they had to a real spy, and the sky was dark. There was a general camaraderie about the rebellion, all of them murmuring goodbyes before slipping off into the darkness. They all used flight pokemon for their disappearance, pokemon they'd caught in the wild and neglected to register. They were all untraceable, but they were well cared for, usually roosting in the rafters of the little makeshift building.

"Here," someone said fiercely, holding out a pokeball, "We give all of our fresh meat one. They have less of a chance of tracking it if it's been caught by someone else. His name is Hiro. He'll drop you off and fly back here. Make sure you attach the pokeball to his collar before he does. An empty, used pokeball is pretty suspicious," she stated, shoving it into his hands. He saw that the voice belonged to Caen, and he grinned, taking it thankfully. He nodded to Thompson and Felix before disappearing into the woods, more than ready to go home and clean his wounds.

"Poor kid," Caen sighed, "We got him young."

"He's not any younger than Rhyme is, and you know what _he _does. Plus Jason wouldn't have had to shed so much blood if it wasn't for Thompson's little stunt last week," Felix noted, his eyes fixated on the spot where the trees had swallowed Jason.

Thompson frowned and gingerly touched his eye. "You told me to. 'Oh, Thompson, with your succulent-meat smell and glorious sense of humor, you would make the perfect bait. See if you can get them to chase you.' So that is what I did. Last time I do something you told me to."

"Please. It was your own fault. You're as klutzy as a carpet. You climbed a tree and fell while trying to get down. That's not taking one for the team. That's being generally stupid," Felix retorted mildly, tilting his almost-yellow eyes up to the stars.

"_You're_ generally stupid," Thompson declared, following his friend's gaze. The stars were always so thick over Frost's forest, untouched by pollution, untouched by love.

"That retort shall go down in history books as _the worst_ response ever. Perhaps you would like to make a comment about my mother, too?" Felix grinned.

"Gladly," Thompson purred, watching Caen slip away, "I've slept with her recently. Just letting you know. She loved it. She's also pregnant. We're naming the baby something magical like Happy or Alta or Sir Killer the Almighty."

"It's good she's getting some action," Felix noted, and then in his typical magician way, disappeared.

It would be like that one day, Thompson knew. One day he would turn around, mid-sentence, and the boy would be gone. But it was only fair. One day Felix would turn around, and where there had been Thompson there would instead be a dark-soil grave.

He stared at the stars and thought of angels.

xxxxxxx

By the time Caen woke up on Sunday, the sun had already risen halfway across the sky. She yawned and stretched out one slim arm, catching her alarm clock in her hand to check the time. She groaned and closed her eyes, pretending she hadn't seen.

Someone sat down on the bed, a familiar weight that promised disaster. "Caen…Caen…" she called, voice smooth and low. "Caen…Honey love, you've got to wake up."

Caen moaned and flipped over, throwing an arm over her eyes. "Go _away_," she murmured, "Come back when it's time for lunch," she demanded in a sticky-sleep voice. After a slight pause, Avalon got up, and pretty soon the creak-click of the door sounded, letting Caen relax just a little bit. She was thinking about things she shouldn't, like what she had done in the past. She was thinking about that boy. Jason. He looked so innocent with his wide, scared eyes, like he was only half aware of what he was capable of.

Maybe that was it: she was sick of knowing that everyone had the potential to rip each other to shreds. Rhyme, for instance. A delicate little wisp of a boy. He could turn into a furious conman in an instant, and she knew it. They were all like that. She knew the killing instinct ran high in her blood too. Restlessly she peeked one eye open and stared at her mocha skin as if expecting it to ripple and split open with malice. Nothing happened.

Suddenly there was a creak from the floor next to her. Caen froze.

"Hello, darling," the voice purred, silk water running shivers down her spine. Horror spun webs inside her mind, cotton candy impossibility, she couldn't think she couldn't speak she couldn't move all she knew was the bittersweet crawling of terror.

The voice broke out laughing. "Wow, I _got_ you, didn't I? I love this app!"

Caen whirled around, angry shame clawing at her body. Avalon was standing next to her bed, giggling and clutching her stomach, tears in her eyes. "You were all, 'Oh god! Imma die!' The _look_ on your _face,_" she snorted and laughed harder before pausing and making a horrified expression. "Oh no! Avalon's gonna get me!" she cackled, taking a few breaths before cracking up again.

Caen glared at her, but she was smiling too. It was hard to stay mad at Avalon. "Maybe I was just scared of your face," she stated, sliding out of bed and padding to the bathroom.

Avalon paused, suddenly serious. "Don't be ridiculous. My face is glorious," she declared, before she was laughing again. Caen shook her head and laughed too. Sometimes Avalon needed to scare her out of her mind before she could get out of bed.

Eventually the two of them got it into themselves to leave, chatting about random things. Avalon was in the middle of saying, "No, it's this new voice-changing app thing. I love it. I'm gonna send…_someone_ a voicemail," when the two of them came upon someone talking in the freshman's hallway.

"I know," the boy said to the phone at his ear, frowning and pulling at the hem of his shirt, "I know. No. It's not – no, honey, I promise. There's no reception up here. No. Yeah, I _know_ I promised I'd write every day. It's not that I don't want to, I just – baby, come on," he said. The two girls passed looks, and then, in the way of best friends, made an executive decision to eavesdrop. They curled themselves around a corner, ears pricked.

"No, of course that's not true," he said, and Avalon grinned. It was time for her favorite game. She flicked back her charcoal hair and pulled herself into her full height, her dark falling-star eyes glittering with mischief.

"Of course it's true," she hissed, relaying the other side of the conversation as she saw it, "I _know_ you've been sleepin' with Belinda. Don't lie to me," she snapped, her voice high and clipped.

"I'm not," he protested, and the two girls had to stifle their giggling. "I promise. I've thought of you every single day, angel."

"Except the days you're thinking about how hot Caen is," Avalon replied tiredly, her eyes doing the quick angry-girl-scan that for some reason is native to all females. Caen was laughing so hard that the effort of keeping it silent made her hurt.

"It's actually pretty cold up here," he said pleasantly, and Caen let out a little squeak before slapping a hand over her mouth. The boy, evidentially oblivious, continued, "Sure, I'd love to come down there during vacation. You know they only let students or staff onto campus. Plus," his voice dropped to a seductive purr, "I'd love to see you in your new swimsuit."

Avalon dropped her voice too. "Speedo," she declared, deadpan.

Caen laughed so hard she dropped to the ground, gasping for air. Whatever else the boy said was swallowed in their giggles as they tried to hush each other. By the time they had even the slightest bit of control over themselves, the boy was rounding the corner. His eyebrows rose a little, seeing to girls panting and leaning themselves against the wall while holding their stomachs like gunshot victims. The moment they saw him, they lost it.

Ike had never been so confused. He decided that this was just one of those girl things. Yeah. It was probably pretty normal that they burst out into hysteria when people walked by. Yeah. Hormones, right? He flinched. Actually, he didn't really want to think about girl hormones. Guys didn't think about things like that. The discussion of things like so-called "emotions" was totally off limits. Suppressing a shudder, he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned up the music in his ears.

Caen watched him go, taking a few deep breaths and massaging her face muscles. Avalon was the only person to ever get the fighter to smile hard enough to hurt. She looped her arm around her friend's and strut into the freshman common room, watching a boy who was talking on the phone. "Yeah, I miss you too," he admitted, and Caen couldn't suppress a giggle.

"Careful," Avalon said darkly, "You've got competition," she warned, passing the couch and patting his shoulder. He jumped a little and sent her a startled look, and she cracked up. The two upperclassmen linked arms again and set off laughing. No way were they going to spend the day lurking in the dorms.

There were good things about being upperclassmen at Frost. The main one was the mall privileges. It was, in Caen's mind, a scientific fact that girls cannot go more than three months without shopping. They wither and die.

She snuck a look at her watch. Yep. Time for snazzy new clothes.

xxxxxxx

Will watched the two girls leave, his mouth open. The girl on the other end of the phone was still talking to him, but he wasn't listening. He considered wondering about their sudden giggles, but he discovered a permanent mental note that ceased the wondering about three seconds in: _They're girls. There is no way you will ever understand them._

"Ah," he said out loud, and the girl stopped talking. Will paused, searching his memory for what she had left off saying. "I think that it's a great idea…?" he tried, closing his eyes and sending a prayer to Raikou, lover of uncertainty.

"Aw, _sweetie, _do you mean it?" she gasped, her voice scratchy over the phone. She sounded happy, excited, healthily. Will sighed and poked at his ribs experimentally, flinching when the ache spread quickly up his body. His cast came off in a few days, though, he thought, so that was something to look forwards to.

"Honestly," he coughed, "I have no idea what I just agreed to," he admitted, and then flinched, his brain sending him a belated message. _Never tell a girl you weren't listening. This is high treason to them, punishable by torture via glitter-glue and pouting, or by death._

"You said it was ok if I went out with Ainsley," she breathed, and Will sat up very straight.

"You're _gay_?" he cried, his eyes widening, "Lauren, since _when?_"

"Arceus, Will, what do you think we've been talking about this entire time? And I'm not _gay_. I'm bi. Don't say it like it's some poison or anything. It's like your ethnicity. You can't just change it because some people are against it," she spat, "And I would have thought _you_ of all people would have understood that," she hissed.

"I thought we were talking about your new Absol," Will murmured, his brain sort of stuck. Well, part of him thought, at least he could take this conversation one step at a time, "And…did you just imply…I'm gay…?"

"Her name is _Shadow_, Will. I've only talked about her four thousand times. And yeah, aren't you?" Laruen snapped, and Will pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at it like it might bite him. His brain unstuck, just for a minute, to tell him: _Girls will always talk, think, and act faster than you can. They know your weakness. They just_ know.

"Actually." he started, but the sharp hiss of static greeted him, the screen flashing _Call was lost_ in green text. "Great," he drawled, "Now she thinks I'm gay _while_ I'm ignoring her," he said to the world, "Thanks, Raikou. Big help, there, buddy."

"You're gay?" the voice was like honesty, curiosity, harmony. He knew who it was before he turned. Grace was grinning at him with wide, happy eyes, as if she'd asked him for the time of day.

"_No_, for the love of Arceus, _I like women,_" he spat, and Grace looked particularly surprised, taking a step back and looking to her sides as if she expected an attack. He instantly relented. "Hey, hey, look, I'm sorry," he called, his voice soft and pleading, "I didn't mean it. Come here," he called, patting the couch next to him. Grace grinned and vaulted the back of the sofa, plopping down next to him softly.

"I would accept you if you were gay, you know," she stated plainly, "It would be fun. We could have make-up parties and sleepovers and pillow fights and stay up all night talking about whether Brad and Angelina will make it and how Ewan McGregor has a suspiciously hot voice."

"I'm sorry, did you say sleepovers?" Will asked, suddenly interested, "Did I say I was straight? Who said that? What?"

She laughed and then sighed, leaning her back against his shoulder, her feet on the couch, her fingers fiddling with her shoelaces. "Say something funny," she demanded suddenly, and Will raised one eyebrow.

"I'm thinking of changing my name," he admitted, stroking his imaginary beard. "Something like Sir Mighty the Long-lasting. Or Sire of Angels. Or perhaps, King of All People, Including You. Yes, You. Although that one would be pretty hard to fit on a letterhead. Plus it would be pretty strange, initial-wise. What, K-A-P-I-Y-Y-Y? I mean, it practically rolls off the tongue," he declared, very subtly stretching his arm to the back of the couch so that it wrapped around her. She sent him a delighted look, twisting so she was sitting cross-legged at his side, looking all of seven years old.

"I like Sir Dapples-With-Knitting, or Hero, except to be important you would spell it with an 'i' so it would be 'Hiro.' Or Sire of All the Unholy Ones. Or –" she sang excitedly, but he cut her off by leaning in close. She dropped whatever she was going to say in favor of a sharply drawn breath.

"Grace," he breathed, "Do you know what you do?"

There was a terse pause before Grace grinned. "If you are talking about the lollipop I just stole from your pocket: it is mine now, under the Lollipop Rights Act of 1993. Seriously. It's the law. Look it up," she grinned, leaning away from him, leaving him, dancing like bramble back into fire. "Do you know where Nathan is? I keep trying to talk to him about something and he disappears," she drawled, pursing her lips.

"H-he should be in our dorm room, I think," Will shrugged. He was suddenly very immersed in picking imaginary fluffs of dust off of his shirt. Wow, he thought dryly, I am the best lint-picking master of all time. They should make me a mobile dry-cleaner. They would praise me as the best in high-tech lint-picking skills. I would get awards and possibly a wood carving of myself in profile.

He looked up, but she was already gone.

xxxxxx

She plopped down onto Nathan's bed, sucking the lollipop she'd taken from Will, waiting expectantly for him to put away his homework. He did so awkwardly slowly, watching the way she watched him, those dark expectant eyes. She poked him into quicker movement, and then grinned. "I have wanted to talk to you for awhile now," she admitted, "But you scuttle – legit, _scuttle_ – away from me. Probably 'cause you know what I'm gonna say."

Nathan looked down at the cover of the bed. His side of the room was pretty neat, but he wished he'd straightened the sheets a little bit more. He promised himself he had no idea what she was talking about, she was just being Grace, she was just being silly, it was going to be something funny or witty or –

"You're a cutter," she stated, flipping the candy in her mouth, throwing his secret out into the world without much ado. Nathan felt shame claw its way up his throat, but swift anger shuddered forwards instead.

"And you're a thief," he replied in the same nonchalant tone. It was an educated guess, and from the way her eyebrows arched, it was correct. She lifted one shoulder with gorgeous dismissal, as if it wasn't that strange, as if everyone was a criminal in their own right. She looked up, made a small sound of recollection, and handed him back his watch without any sort of guilt.

"I was trained to be a thief," she replied lazily, "Whereas there aren't exactly classes for cutting oneself into shreds," she murmured, gently taking his wrist and pushing his sleeve up, twisting it so his new fresh scars showed. How easy, he thought, how easy it would be to lean forward and kiss her, to let his heart slide into falling, to wish away the conversation they were having.

As if she sensed his thoughts, she dropped his wrist and pulled her knees up to her chest, twirling her lollipop. He felt the cold band around his arm from where her warmth had abandoned him and wished she would touch him again. Instead, she was staring at the ceiling with a dark sort of amusement, as if the cracks in the paint were the funniest thing she had ever seen. They splintered like the look in her eye: crazy sick impatience, like torture love.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," she breathed, and for an instant Nathan was very aware that they were alone in his room and on his bed. He bit his lip. No. Will liked her. This was not going to work. Nathan couldn't… he couldn't. He followed her eyes to the cracks in the ceiling, rips in the wings of angels.

She clawed at her shirt with sudden desperation, flashing her tanned skin. It was pink and white with scars everywhere, hideous lines that stretched across her body. She laughed as she showed them off, as if it was natural, as if she wasn't showing signs of being broken. "I did it for my daddy," she whispered, calming down, pulling her clothes back into place. Nathan could not recall ever being so disappointed by a single action. Her skin and her scars went back into hiding. He bit his lip harder. No. He couldn't.

She wrapped her tongue around the white stick for a minute before she stated, "He would leave me. He would leave us. He would show up for two, maybe three days, handing us presents and love and making us remember how much we needed him. And then he would leave again, off to save someone else, off to fix the world. Who were we to ask him back? For every day he was with us, children died. Every time he wrote us, he was taking time from healing. Every time he left us, someone was made happy from our sorrow," she said, her voice soft, vulnerable. Nathan's fingers twitched, reaching out impulsively towards her. But he couldn't. No.

She looked away and took a pen off his night table, flipping it around her fingers. "My sister and I used to go through these ridiculous phases. It depended on what the last thing he said to us had been. 'Be strong, girls, so one day you can fight off your suitors when daddy's not there.' 'Train hard, girls, so that one day you can be real competitors and you can win trophies and make daddy proud.' 'Take the world, girls, because it's yours to have.' And we listened. We hired people to teach us how to kill, how to fight, how to steal, how to be everything he wanted from us. We wanted his attention, his approval. It didn't matter if we bled or died. We needed him to be proud of us. By the time Ashley disappeared, we could kill you in ways you've never thought of," Grace laughed, as if she wasn't ripping out her soul and laying it bare. She yawned and stretched, putting the pen down and wrapping her tongue around her lollipop. Nathan bit his lip so hard it bled.

"When Ashley went missing, it was in the middle of our pokemon training phase. We both had been working harder than we should, but when my sister left, I pretty much threw myself into it. It was awful. I pushed my pokemon past where they should go, and then farther. Tabbot got the worst of it, and one day his body quit. It took months before he was able to even stand. I quit battling that day, and maybe I would have been normal after that. You know? Sometimes you just need a wakeup call. But my stepmother wouldn't pay for Tabbot's treatments," Grace growled, but then she laughed, "She hates Tab. Some old superstition about his ability to cause disasters. So I resorted to doing what I'd trained all my life for: stealing. I guess it just sort of became a habit. I haven't even seen my father since Ashley died. He doesn't know how dark my hair turned, the way it matches his now, or how tall I am, or what I love to do. He doesn't care, either," she murmured, and Nathan suddenly felt awful for the ways he was betraying her. She was trying to share her past with him. He was instead thinking about the way the underside of her hair still had golden streaks, the way that it twisted down her body. The way her eyes were piercing into his, waiting. It took him a moment before he realized what exactly she was waiting for.

"My mother died," he croaked, itching his arm. "She died in my arms," he whispered, and sympathy wrote its inky way across Grace's visage. He wished he had phrased it with a writer's poetry. He wished he has spread out his soul like she had. He wished that he had a story like hers instead of a quick epilogue. He wished she was his.

Grace leapt lightly off the bed, shaking herself joyfully, a grin on her face. "My sister used to tell me that my mother was an assassin," she sang, "And I believed her, because I knew my mother for four years before she disappeared," she laughed, as if that was normal, as if anything about Grace had ever been normal.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, "That must have hurt," and all he could think was, _like the way you are hurting me now, Grace. Just like that._

She shrugged again. "It happens. Your pity or whatever can't save me. Although every girl should get a chance to be a damsel in distress. Its oh so fun," she grinned, and he just nodded placidly, and for an instant, Nathan saw who she should have been: a whole, healthy teenager, warm and fun. She wasn't, he knew suddenly. She'd never been that. Grace was cold and shattered, broken in too many ways for anyone to get past where she'd frozen her heart. Sure, she played like she was fine, but there it was: the look her eyes had again, like she didn't trust the world to stay with her. Like she hated everything she saw. That made sense. Everyone she loved was always leaving. Maybe she was just like him, he wondered, just like him but with eyes like darkness.

She took Nathan's hand and wrapped her fingers in his, oblivious to the way he became suddenly still. "Let's make a promise," she whispered, "Just between you and me. You won't cut and I won't steal," she stated, touching her nose to his. Nathan couldn't open his mouth to agree, much less argue. She was so close that he could taste her vanilla presence. He managed a weak smile, and she took that as consent. She giggled and pulled away, danced away, left him there as she went to go solve the world or whatever it was she was doing. She opened the door and almost smacked into Kratch, who was humming feircly like she was trying to figure something out.

Nathan stared at the hand Grace had held. It prickled with imagined touch. "Oh," he breathed, "This is not good," he admitted, because he could feel the way his heart fixated on her.

He bit his lip until blood reminded him that he was not a creature made for love.

xxxxxxx

Kratch had woven her way around the campus, searching for inspiration. Finding none, she had returned to her desk miserably. She'd started off with the best intentions, but two hours later just tapped her pencil up and down, up and down. Her head was level with the stack of papers. She was seeing if she could read the music sideways too. She let out a little sigh, listening to the soft shuffling of her hair falling in front of her eyes.

Thump, whump. Her Skitty landed easily on the desk in front of her, letting out a plaintive mew. She laughed and sat up, watching as Skit walked right across the surface, brushing his fur under her nose before choosing her book for his next nap. She laughed, and he opened one eye blearily, as if she'd committed some sin. His sharp focus landed on the rubber bands around her wrist. He thought they looked delicious.

He sank his teeth into them, and she laughed until his sharp fangs began pulling at her skin instead. She let out a sharp breath and removed her wrist, shaking her head. She could feel where it burned at her already, all split skin pain. She frowned, raising one eyebrow. Skit was already falling back asleep; unaware he'd committed any wrong. There was something to be said about the innocence of beasts.

She put her head back down on the papers, her forehead in his short, thick fur. He was purring, distantly, and it was to that sound that she fell asleep.

The door slammed open. "It is I! I have come to whisk you into the darkness like a felon with natural good looks and really fantastic-smelling hair!"

Kratch jumped and sent an offended look to the door, where Tommi was standing like a hero, cape and all, with a wry Tarrow behind him. "What…?" she tried, rubbing her eyes. Skit hadn't even moved. Figures.

"Sorry for scaring you, young female, but I am in need of a damsel to distress!" Tommi called joyfully. Kratch knit her brows together. A slim girl with hair like dark honey slipped under his arm and into the room.

"He's actually sorry for being stupid," Izzy said dryly, "He should have knocked or something."

"Although," Tarrow called, not wanting to be left out, "You probably should lock your door if you're alone."

Tommi strode in, grabbing one side of his red satin cape and folding it in front of his mouth. "It is _I_, zhe mazked magi!" he lisped, and Izzy shook her head.

"I'm pretty sure that's vampires," she noted, and Kratch very subtly pinched herself, just to be sure she wasn't dreaming. "Sorry about this," Izzy said to her friend, "He's seeing what it's like to be a superhero. I thought the cape would help, but that sorta meant I had to watch over his antics too," she murmured conspiratorially.

"I'm not alone," Kratch slowly said to Tarrow, "Yuki's in the bathroom. Plus, it's not like Skit wouldn't protect me."

"What, _him_?" Tarrow said disbelievingly, sliding into the room and sending a look to the sleeping Skitty, "Oh yeah, I see how he's about to rip my throat open. I am shaking in my proverbial boots. Well, I would be, if the Tarot reading I have just preformed had promised anything other than smooth sailing. Of course, for a very small fee – and consider, if you will, the grand scheme of things – you _too_ could have the assurance that no wild Skitty should ever smack you around," he promised, while Tommi marched stiffly from one place to another, his head high, his chest out.

"I don't think you'd be able to save the world if you walked like that," Izzy observed dryly. "And Tarrow, when was the last time someone actually fell for that scam?"

"It's not a scam! I do not mess with the Powers That Be! Scam artists are the mess-ers. I do not _ever_ mess. I…dabble, and/or occasionally influence results, but I _never_ mess," Tarrow bit back proudly, holding the deck to his heart like a wounded angel shot down for his message.

"If I was a girl," Tommi pondered, "I think I'd want someone who _strode_ in. Like…like, happiness, you know, just at the right moment, before the entire world crashes down."

"I think that's stupid," Izzy said to Tommi, "Why wait until the last minute? You know your girlfriend might be kidnapped, so, what, you sit around eating popcorn until she's in _real_ danger? And why does the villain give you, like, a set amount of time and a warning? 'Oh, I shall be killing her in…five minutes good for you?' Why doesn't he just _kill_ her? You know, no plan to thwart or whatever."

"Does the Tarot really work?" Kratch asked Tarrow over the din, her eyes wide and wondering. Tarrow grinned, holding the deck out to her, fanning it in a perfect semi-circle. He motioned for her to take one. Slowly she stuck her hand out and selected one at random, flipping it over. The Tower. Tarrow's eyes widened, a frown on his face.

"Where's Yuki, did you say?" he snapped at her, and she paled.

"T-the bathroom," Kratch replied warily, "I was trying to finish the next duet we have due in music class, and she got bored and said she was taking a shower."

"How long ago was that?" he growled, and at that point the entire room was focused on her response. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

"I-I don't know. I fell asleep. I'm sorry," she stammered, not knowing why she was apologizing. Tarrow didn't respond, he just strode to the black bathroom door, putting his ear to the door and rapping it twice with his knuckles. Whatever he heard made him rattle the doorknob desperately, but when it didn't open, he thrust his body against the door, shouldering it off its hinges. Behind him, the other three stumbled in, their eyes wide when they saw the room.

Blood coated the walls. Clothes and towels were strewn everywhere, and the shower curtain had been torn down. The shower was still running, hitting the empty bathtub with a sick thunder. Across the floor, Yuki's bloody footprints ran a frantic race for the door.

On the mirror, someone had pasted a picture of Kratch, her eyes gouged out, hollow, reflecting the shock in the room. Across the wall, a message ran in smeared red lipstick like tumbling angel wings, thick green claws, endless hate.

_You're next, baby girl. You're next._

X-X

**A.N: If I named chapters, this chapter's name would be Shameless. I think you know why. If you can't find my reference to you, it is probably because you are looking too hard or because I thought I was being clever and it's way too subtle. I mean, not that I would ever use my story to promote my friends. Although that band reference I will not aplogize for.**

**Also, by the way, the Edward Sullen was _so_ my idea, "Vampires Suck" stole it. And I don't claim any ownership of Justin Bieber because it is illegal to own people, last I checked.**

**So you must be saying, "It is not Friday you are late," but that is because it is so long.**

**So you must be saying, "It is so long it is actually a novel," but that is because I spent so long writing it.**

**I hope you liked it. It's so...so long...**

**Take care.  
**


	15. Chapter 15

For an instant, everything hung in infinite silence.

"Well," Tarrow said, his voice hoarse and quavering, "This does not look good."

Suddenly everything was movement again. Kratch opened her mouth and screamed, her hands flying to her lips, her terror ripping its way out of her body. She was sobbing, moving her hands as if to touch things, as if to make sure what she was seeing wasn't a nightmare, constantly returning to her stomach as if she was about to throw up. Her searching fingers caught Yuki's bloody sweatshirt, and she made a sound like desperate fury. Kratch bundled it close to her body, coughing out her sorrow, her knees buckling. Tarrow caught her on the way down, scooping her up and carrying her out into her room. He lay her on her bed, pressing his hand against her forehead soothingly. "Shh," he whispered, "She's fine. It's a trick. She's fine," he told Kratch, but the heave of her ribcage didn't slow. He sighed quietly and looked to Izzy, who nodded and went to retrieve a damp towel. Tommi waited until the blonde was clear of the bathroom before he repositioned the door back on its hinges.

Izzy wiped Kratch's face calmly, even though her own countenance was a sick pale color as if she had stepped from the grave. Tommi was shaking horribly, undoing his cape and letting it slide its crimson path to the floor. The only sound was Kratch's crying, and Tarrow's hushed attempt to make it better when everyone knew it wasn't.

It was a long time before the brunette could breathe again, and when she could, she gulped it in furious gasps. "Oh my god," she choked out, "Oh my god. Yuki…oh my god." All she could think about was how terrible a person she was. Some of her was crying for the sake of her friend, but too much of her was crying for her own sake, for the terror she felt, for the sick twisting joy that it hadn't been _her_, that she was safe for now. She gasped at the thought and shuddered out another sob, clutching the clothing even tighter. She buried her face in Yuki's cold-willow smell.

"Oh my god," she repeated, and suddenly she was airborne, pressed against Tarrow's chest. His face was set, as if he hadn't just scooped her up effortlessly.

"We shouldn't be in here," he stated, striding across the room, "You remember too much in here," he murmered soothingly, and let Izzy open the door for him. She led him down the hallway to her room, stepping aside to let him place Kratch on her bed. Grace looked up, startled, mid-painting and mouth open. She didn't say anything, just snapped her teeth closed and put her brush down, leaping out of bed and tackling Kratch, snuggling close to her. The crying escalated for an instant, but then waned, slowly, until all that was left was slow hiccups.

"Good," Izzy breathed, "You're safe now," she stated, and then stiffly walked to the bathroom. "I'm going to throw up," she said, closing the door behind her. Tommi was shaking so badly that Tarrow thought he might shake into pieces. Tarrow searched himself and found nothing but purpose. He slid out his phone and dialed a number. Ring, ring, rin-

"Hello?" she didn't sound happy he'd called her.

"Caen," he stated, "Sunflower," he reported, listening to the silence of her breathing.

"Are you sure?" she whispered, and he thought she heard something like hope, the idea that everything was just a dream and they would all wake up and –

"Yuki's gone," he said quietly, turning away so Kratch wouldn't hear. Grace was distracting her pleasantly, making her laugh in a broken way, brushing her hair from her face. His daughter was pretty good at calming people down, he noticed, but it was probably because she just exuded a sort of tranquil amusement.

"Yuki? What's _she_ got to do with the Sunflower Project?"

"I think she knew about the still hour," he said slowly. "She was a singer and she hated the school announcements. She would always flinch when they came on. I asked her about it once. She said the person sounded like something from a nightmare. Someone that had their voice stolen from them."

"…We will continue this later. I'll schedule a meeting," she barked, and Tarrow snapped the phone shut. He sent a look towards Tommi, who was looking at the bathroom door like he envied Izzy's decision to throw up. He kept sending Grace these frightened little glances, and Tarrow lost his patience. He was not in the mood for this.

"Oh, for the love of _Arceus,_" he spat, "Yuki is probably dead," he paused at the sharp squeak from Kratch before continuing, "And you're worried about things like _that_? She's fine now, isn't she?"

"I am worried that she'll blame me for…for _this_," he protested, and Tarrow shot him a disgusted look. Tommi frowned nervously and turned to the brunette. "Grace…I…I mean, I didn't _want_ to, but…" Tommi stuttered, making Tarrow exhale sharply.

"He was the one that stabbed you," the Tarot reader said dully, watching the way his daughter's eyes expanded.

"I was sent to kill you, Grace," Tommi breathed. "I am so…so…sorry…I didn't know you'd be, you know, _good._ Of course, now we're not even sure it's _you…_"

"She's good," Tarrow interjected dully, "And you stabbed her. Are we all friends again? Is she dead? No she is not," he noted, and then shuffled the Tarot deck, saying, "Now then, we've got the Sunflower protocol in place. Time to start a fire." He selected a card that stuck to his fingertips a little tighter than the others. The Moon. "Let's start with the Dean, then, shall we?"

xxxxxxx

Little spheres of lemon light.

They were so pretty she forgot that she couldn't breathe.

xxxxxxx

Tommi waded his way across the grass to the Dean's office, humming to himself and trying to keep calm. The building was red brick-black roofed looming. The front had silver ivy fashioned on the front, large mechanical stalks of false nature. Inside was all fire, but outside was all iron. Tommi suppressed a shiver and went inside.

He was always shocked about how normal the first level looked: florescent lights, cracking tiles, an empty desk. On the back wall, one golden elevator painted with a sun. Tommi hit the button for the doors and stepped inside, breathing out.

"[S.e.l.e.c.t l.e.v.e.l]" the screen gleamed in front of him, and he tapped out, "27" restlessly, hurriedly, biting his lip even though he shouldn't be nervous. He was supposed to be delivering news. Nervousness looked like lying. He took a shuddering breath, watching as the screen blipped, "[S.c.a.n b.a.r.c.o.d.e]" before he tugged at his shirt, pulling it down far enough that the five tally marks gleamed on his skin. He picked up the scanner, a little cylinder of metal, and swiped it over the tattoo, trying to fall into habit, trying not to think, _Her blood coats the walls, love. Her blood just coats the walls._

Click, whirr, the movement began. Tommi hated elevators. They felt like falling. They made his heart drop, his head spin. A little gilded cage, tumbling upwards. The screen was blipping words at him again: "[S.t.a.t.e y.o.u.r p.u.r.p.o.s.e]" and he sighed, bending down. "Reporting an interesting development in the little resistance effort," he chirped, "I think they've started using country music to sway the votes of wild pokemon _everywhere_."

There was a short moment of processing, and then a click. There was a knowing silence through the microphone. He knew she was listening. "Hey," he breathed, "Tell my master I'm on my way," he said dryly, closing his eyes against the quiet coming from the screen. He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes, twenty six seconds until moonrise. They had discovered Yuki about one hour, fifteen minutes until moonrise. He couldn't think about it. It wrapped around his heart like hard metal bands, constricting into infinity.

Thump, click, slide. He stepped out into a different world. The carpet was summer glow red under his feet, thick, lit with shy little orange lamps. The floor was golden under the carpets, and the walls matched it. On the left wall, water streamed down in an indoor fountain. On the right, the secretary looked at him, wide-eyed. Twenty nine minutes and two seconds until moonrise. She ducked her head and waved him in with her red nails. He grinned at her, flashing his left wrist. Her eyes widened. "_Sunflower?_" she mouthed, and he nodded, licking his thumb and rubbing the marker away. It smeared green against his skin. She knit her brows and looked at the wide wooden door that separated her master from the world. "_Go,_" she mouthed.

He knocked on the door. Twenty seven minutes and two seconds until moonrise. When it swung open, he padded in, trying to quell the shaking. The dean was rubbing blood off of his hands with a yellow towel, a mechanic removing oil from his fingers. His head was down, his hair in front of his face. He barely looked up, nodding for Tommi to sit down.

"Sir," Tommi began, and had to draw a breath, "It appears the resistance has met a rough patch. It was intelligent of you to take down Yuki. She evidentially had more pull than I thought she did," he stated, watching the way the Dean nodded, turning to pull a book of his shelf, flipping through the pages with ease.

"It was necessary," he murmured, sitting down and taking out his pen, scratching down notes. "She knew about the still hour," he affirmed, and Tommi had to dig his nails into the chair's arms to keep from showing triumph. They had all blamed the Dean, but even _he_ was innocent until proven guilty.

"They have no idea what to do," Tommi said, smiling, "It's completely demoralized them." His fingers dug half-moon lies into the chair. The Dean was too busy polishing his nails to notice. "And Rhyme has completed one hundred, twenty-six of his missions. The quota has been _more_ than reached."

The Dean let the silence stretch. If Tommi was supposed to squirm, he forgot to. He was too busy hearing _It was necessary_, like a life was just a choice, just a casualty. Like Yuki was only one more blood smear.

Sir Harvey Gillian Frost flipped through a few pages, signed something, and handed Tommi the packet. "Give this to Lucinda, would you?" he purred, in his way dismissing both the secretary and the boy. Tommi hated him. Tommi wanted to take the papers, tear them up, throw them in his face. Tommi wanted to lunge across the desk and make Sir Harvey Gillian Frost into Sir Harvey Gillian _Dead._ Tommi wanted to –

He was outside of the room, though he couldn't remember leaving. Flying on autopilot was a sign of shock, right? She was looking at him, waiting. He sighed and handed her the papers, watching as she flicked through them expertly. Ten minutes, four seconds until moonrise. She was stalling. He knew she was stalling.

Ten minutes. Her fingers danced an icy tango, flick click skittering across things, double-checking, rewording. The search for a new folder took longer than it should have. Her desk was too neat for her to have lost anything. In the silence, a click-whir-snap sounded in the other room, and she relaxed visibly.

"How are they?" he whispered, and she looked away, giving a little shrug, shuffling papers and sliding one across the desk to him. He scanned it upside down and let out a breath, the tension dropping from his body. They were safe, still. Orders had not been given for their deaths. "Hey," he whispered, "You're doing great, Charlotte," he murmured, and she looked up, startled at her name, sudden tears gleaming in her eyes. He reached over and clasped her hand, smiling at her, before spinning on his heel and disappearing into the elevator.

He had to make it out. Six minutes, ten seconds before moonrise.

He had to get to Izzy. She had to know before the still hour was upon them.

Six minutes, seven seconds.

xxxxxxx

"You're so ugly," he told her, steepling his fingers, "But I will allow you to speak to me. Do you know if we've done well? Do you know if my Tommi lied to me?" the Dean smiled, and she looked away, unable to talk. He knew she would be. There were five more minutes left before the moonrise.

"Well, then? We've done well? Fantastic. Tell Mr. Genesis I shan't kill his mother in her sleep," he laughed. She felt herself tense, felt herself want to lunge for him and strike him, beat him into silence.

She only looked up and met his eyes, knowing what it would do to her. He moved faster than she could dodge, but it was worth it. She would not transmit the message. There were boundaries she was setting, slowly. She thought of Tommi, with everything to lose, and his hope for revolution. She thought of the Dean and his will to destroy.

His face embedded itself in her mind: all ice eyes and honey hair.

xxxxxxx

He ran, and he ran hard, his heart fluttering rabidly against his chest. He knew already, watching the way the moon crawled across the sky, that he wasn't going to make it. He fumbled in his pockets as he ran, securing his fingers around the earplugs.

The dorm was five minutes away. It was one minute, two seconds until moonrise.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as he shoved the earplugs in and kept running, "I'm sorry I won't make it."

The crawling feeling started in his blood and spread to his body. Ten seconds until the still hour. Nine, eight.

"I am so sorry."

xxxxxxx

In the darkness of night, Nathan remembered a trick of his childhood. He had loved the way that the repetition of words slowly dissolved their meaning. He used to lie awake, whispering words into the night, feeling their existence slowly dissipate, slowly lose their way in his head.

That night, the word his lips formed silently had too much meaning. It hurt.

_Grace. _

xxxxxxxx

"Hey," Grace said, waking her up, "I'm all for late nights, but you're gonna wake Kratch up. She only _just _fell asleep," she stated, barely suppressing her yawn. The poor girl had refused to go back to her dorm, but it wasn't like anyone was going to force her to leave. Tarrow had made a makeshift bed for her, and then left them to do whatever secret project it was he was up to, a serious look on his face. The sternness looked foreign there, and it put everyone on edge. He had not returned.

Izzy blinked blearily. "What?" she choked out, "Why did you wake me?"

"You were screaming about your dad again," the brunette said dully, her eyes darting to the picture on the frame, lit by the high moon. Izzy's father, before he had disappeared, had been a slim, happy-looking man with golden honey hair and melting-ice eyes.

"I miss him," Izzy said. "I miss him so, _so_ much. I know what he would say right now, to make it better, and somehow knowing that…makes it worse."

"I miss my dad too," Grace smiled, "Its good. The day you start worrying is the day it stops hurting," she whispered, and then shimmed into bed with her best friend.

"Some day," the brunette murmured into the air, "Someone's gonna write a story about two really hot girls with questionable pasts that are _really hot_. In this scene, we will be naked and suddenly attracted to each other, despite the fact that for the rest of the book, we had been totally attracted to boys. We would wonder at our mistake in the morning, but we'd always have that special spark."

"Oh," Izzy laughed quietly, "Well, there goes any questions _I_ had about my sexuality."

"Good," Grace mumbled, snuggling in the way close friends, "Emotional crisis, _solved._"

It was the first night in seven years Izzy did not dream of empty horror.

But when she woke, for an instant, she could only taste blood.

xxxxxxx

When she opened her eyes, all Kratch could think was, _I do not know this ceiling._

This was followed with, _Yuki is dead._

This was followed only with silence.

xxxxxxx

Tobi woke up.

The bed next to him was all empty hospital corners. "Ike?" Tobi called blearily, sitting up. His fingers brushed something underneath his pillow. He slid it out carefully. A packet of papers, worn and scrawled with ivy writing.

"_Dear Tobi,_

_If you are reading this, I am dead or worse off, and you are in great danger._

_I have discovered much about our school, about our Dean, about a girl with hair like glimmering sunlight. This is how the story starts: two brothers and a war._"

"Ike…" Tobi breathed, "What did you do?"

xxxxxxx

Sage sat up, his fingers twitching. Fluidly, he sprang out of bed and grabbed his sketchpad. The charcoal in his fingers made black rainbows, twisting, twisting, melting into something he had seen in only his dreams.

A girl in a white nightgown. All around her was liquid. A mask covered her face. She was one of many, but hers were the only eyes open. She looked quizzical, ashamed, and unattainable, her straight hair caught up in the currents. She was cursed. She was impossible. Her name was Sin. She was only the idea of a person. She existed only in dreams.

Her song sung in his head.

_I am alone and yet I can see. I am alive and yet I can't breathe. I am forever a slave._

We are all slaves, each of us.

xxxxxxx

He branded the teachers so that everyone who looked at them would know they were his. So _they_ would know they belonged to him. They would have loved their jobs. Instead, they hated their oppression. They could never leave.

They could have taught children how to be leaders. They were forced into teaching something else entirely, something low, something horrible, something that bled white against the sky.

It was ending, they could feel it. Something had changed. So many years stuck in horror, and suddenly someone had started the burning. The world swung into momentum.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. Where will you be when the revolution starts?

xxxxxxx

Carmen used to play a game with her friends. They would wish on stars, and someone would grant it, but the wish would be corrupted. She would play along like everyone else. _I wish I had a car_ was answered with _Granted, but it only uses square tires and runs on the most expensive gas._ It was fun. It was simple. She would ask for things that didn't matter and she would smile when they were pulled away from her. One was always on the tip of her tongue. One was always right there, right where she could feel it brooding.

_I wish I knew love._

She watched him walk away from her, moving in his polished dancer grace. The concern in his eyes didn't glimmer for her, and she could hear her friend's laughter.

_Granted, but love does__ not know you._

xxxxxxx

Mika was standing in the middle of his dorm, wondering what the day was going to do to him. He wasn't in a good mood. He wasn't in a bad mood. He was in the sort of apathetic place that spoke of What To Do? Mika was in the body of a killer with a mind of a boy. Mika was two things and the world was one. Mika did not belong.

Suddenly, arms wound around his body. He jumped, sending a look behind him. Davion was hugging him and sighing. Mika thrashed and moved away, sending the model a glare. "God," he hissed, "They could have told me that I was rooming with a sexual offender."

Davion just shrugged and started getting changed. Inside of his head, words echoed. He didn't speak them. Some people aren't meant for speaking. He was too low. He was broken. He was the rain. He thought Mika had needed a hug. Maybe he was wrong. He was always wrong about love.

But Mika was smiling, barely.

xxxxxxx

People are stupid. They don't understand cutting. They make it into this delirious, perfect thing, like the waves against the sky. They make it into beauty and love and hurt waiting to get out. They make the cutters into freaks but artists, outcasts and special in their own right.

What is so special about scars? What is so special about wanting death? What is so special about thinking I Will Never Feel?

Nathan looked at his arm and wondered.

xxxxxxx

He remembers looking at the test results and thinking, _Oh, that explains it. _The look in his mother's eyes was blank with horror and disgust, with certainty. She had snarled at her yellow-eyed child and called him a demon. She had called him evil. The test result had proven it.

Felix was a monster. Felix was a sociopath. Felix had to be because the test said so, right there, right where it was supposed to say, Mother, Please Love Your Child.

Love, love, love. Wake up. It doesn't exist.

xxxxxxxx

The funny thing about abuse is that it never works the way you think it's going to. Instead of fists, it's an unfinished sentence. "Don't talk to him, he's…" and you know what they didn't say: he's fat, he's stupid, he's _different_. You can't take that and throw it back to them. You can't say, "Why would I talk to you, you're…" because you're embarrassed and shy and hurt. You can feel shame skid through your body and all you can think is, _well it's my own fault for being like this, being broken._

Orson watched the way his skin moved over his bones. He was reminded of something. A story. I have no mouth, he thought, and yet I scream. I have nothing. I have no one. It is my own fault. I am forever split.

There is shame in all of us.

xxxxxxx

Grace helped Kratch to her feet, holding her hand even after the girl was awake. "Come on," she said, "It's time to get dressed." Izzy took Yuki's other hand, opening the door, jumping when she discovered Tarrow crouching in front of them. He looked up blearily, black smoke sleepiness under his eyes, a wry smile on his face.

"I apologize for the interruption in the normal viewing agenda," he coughed, "But I'm afraid the program will be replaced with, 'Hot Chill Boys From The South Side.' Again, apologies," he murmured, standing up and rubbing his eyes. Grace's jaw dropped.

"Were you out here _all night,_ daddy?" she breathed, and he nodded in his sticky way, shuffling the deck in his hand, the other restlessly rubbing against his cheek. He led the way to Kratch's dorm, shuffling along haphazardly. His hair was messy and his eyes were dark. When no one was watching, he pulled the plugs out of his ears.

Kratch opened the door and wanted to gasp, but instead she felt relieved. The room was devoid of any trace of Yuki. Grace's tentative examination of the bathroom gave them nothing but a clean room and a note, written in plastic type against light green paper.

_Dear [_Subject Name Here_],_

_We regret to inform you that [_Yuki Koori_] has formally withdrawn from The Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented. S/he has transferred to [_School Name Here_] because of personal reasons. The replacement for your roommate should occur within three to six weeks. Thank you for your understanding._

_Regards._

Kratch stared at it, and dismissed it with a derisive snort. "Thanks," she said dully, "That really helped me. I was wondering, 'Gosh, who cleaned up all this blood?' But now I know it was just Yuki back from…from…from…" she felt her voice hitch. She waited for the tears, but all she felt was a vast, uncertain emptiness, like she was standing on a slowly crumbling ledge. The fall was approaching, but for now she was safe. Safe.

Tarrow just looked at the half empty room and plucked a card from the deck. With a grace foreign to his observers, he threw it with a flick of his wrist, watching as it sailed across the room and stuck in the wall, trembling with the force of the impact.

He walked away.

xxxxxxx

Patches stood by her bedside.

She opened her eyes.

xxxxxxx

When he was younger, he had a Skitty that had a small scar under its eye, earning it the title Sir Monocle Dare the Dashing. Sir Monocle never came when you called, and would eat you before you were cold. Sir Monocle was clever and smart and loved no one except for his master.

Sir Monocle ran out into the streets and was hit by an oncoming vehicle, his sleek pelt reduced to ashes. He entered the domain of Arceus almost instantaneously.

That day, Thompson found out he had terminal cancer.

xxxxxxx

Grace followed her father into the hallway, but when she turned the corner, he was nowhere to be found. She frowned and retrieved her friends, unable to stay in the crisply clean room that told more stories than when it had been painted with blood. Silently, hopelessly, they made their way back to their dorm, strings attached to their hearts just hammering away.

The brunette opened the door for the other two, but then closed it suddenly, a stricken look on her face. She repeated this action several times without explanation before Izzy wrestled in front of her and stumbled into the room. She looked up and felt Grace freeze behind her.

The woman grinned. "Did you miss me?"

"Ashley?"

X-X

**A.N: Wow you know you overachieve when eleven pages seems short... If you can name the references I made, all of them, I will love you. Seriously.**

**Early update _power~! _Not that you should expect another early update any time soon. School is killing me sweetly :P_  
_**

**I actually really like this chapter, which makes me worry, because whenever I like things, no one else does...  
**

**I do have more new characters that never got introduced, so just hang in there, people who submitted before Chapter 14. I'll get them in eventually, I promise. Thank you for your patience :)**

**I hope you liked this chapter as much as I did. Tune in two weeks from now just so I can not solve any of the questions you have :)**

**Take care.  
**


	16. Chapter 16

One two three, _four_ five six. One two three, _four_ five six. One two three, _four _five six.

Down, step step, down, step step.

And, _waltz_ –two-three, turn –two-three, _ sissonne_, come on now,_ tombé, pas de bourrée_, _stay down, I saw that_, think opposition now! Push down to go up, _and_, double _pirouette_ – stay over your center, next time, _tombé, pas de bourrée_, triple – spot! For the love of Arcues, _spot!_ And…_arabesque_ turn-two-three, _contretemps_, stay up and _hold._

He didn't speak. He moved like water. He looked like sunlight. He looked like he remembered who he was, content, maybe, just living for once. He made his way across the way-too-slippery hardwood, canvas shoes black against white. Right then, he wasn't there, not all the way. He was stuck in _glissade_ over, _glissade_ under. The class was almost empty because it was a boy's class on a Sunday, and Patches was going to be late, having expressed a need to visit the hospital. Patches was good too, but in a different way, Davion thought. Patches was all communication while Davion was all athletic precision. Davion was power, a fierce need pushing out from his ribs, not used to freedom. The teacher was clapping her hands to the time of the music, slamming her palm together on the accents.

This is the way we leave, he thought, The way we leave is to dance.

He hurts, but he likes it. Dancers laugh at the idea of pain. They wear it like a badge: I have shin splints, stress fractures, a torn tendon, a bad hip, blisters everywhere. Dancers rate a teacher by how hard they are, by how much the students can move their bodies the next day, by how often they are left out of breath. This teacher was hard, so she was good. She made him suck in his breath sharply. It felt like ice.

Davion used to talk all of the time. He settled for dancing one day, because the pain inside of him only melted when he was moving, when he was losing himself in the steps, when he was one-two-thee-four through the maple leaves.

He stripped away his hurt on the inside and replaced it on the outside.

Turn, step step, _pas de bourrée._ Turn, step, step.

One two three, one two three.

One two, one two, one two three four.

Free.

xxxxxxx

Tobi clutched the paper in his hands. Ike's story started:

What if I told you: This is how the world ends.

This is how the world ends.

This is how the world ends.

But first it must begin.

xxxxxxx

She watched the other girl's eyes open.

"Mimi," Carmen greeted her, "Patches says hello." Patches had stayed as long as he could, the night before, but he had dance in the morning and had begged Carmen to be there for his friend when she woke up. Carmen had accepted automatically. It was the least she could do. She could never do enough for him.

"Patches?" Mimi slurred, her head confused and broken. Everything felt like she was still dreaming, and the girl by her bedside was too pretty to be real. Maybe it was a silhouette of reality. Maybe it was a web. Maybe it was a story.

"Patches," Carmen confirmed, her brows knit with motherly worry. She patted Mimi's hand gently, smoothing out the covers around her. Mimi's skin was pierced with needles and tubes. They were yellow and red and looked like the branches to a maple tree, all leading back to the beep-beep tone of the EKG machine, the IV drip, the trunk to her leaves.

Mimi opened her mouth with a sharp click, as if webs had sown her jaw shut.

"Who's Patches?"

xxxxxx

Ike's testimony furthered:

This diary was hidden in our Dean's office, where no one could use it to incriminate him. In the pursuit of my knowledge, I have put myself in great danger, but I suppose the outcome was worth it. Enclosed are my notes.

And then it said:

It was autumn. It was August. It was April. Her hair was the color of the sun: white-gold moonlight. It was the winter, and snow was falling. She had eyes the color of smoky glass, skin the color of an oak tree, and a smile that would crawl up her face at every little thing, and she was merry, and the world was merry.

She was friends with a man, and that man had a brother. The two boys were her life and she was theirs. It was in the way that they were, two boys, locked in combat, forever entwined. The eldest had straight dusky-dark hair that fell around his face like a black-brown halo. He had sharp teeth and a winning smile and smelled like the sunrise and hay. He smelled like comfort and laundry soap, and he owned the world.

His brother was a curly-haired blonde demon that laughed at the sky and rebelled at conformists, wanted nothing but recognition and got nothing but mistaken for his brother, the obelisk to his shadow. He walked always in the omnipresent past: one step forwards, two steps someone had already taken for him. Back again.

The younger was named Gallant Fisher Ivory. He had a heart like a sword has a blade.

xxxxxxx

"'Sup," the woman said, sitting down on Grace's bed and chomping down on a green apple. "Can I have my pokemon back, by any chance?"

"_Ashley?_" Grace sucked in, holding out her hands like she wasn't sure if what she was seeing was real or not, like she was trying to catch her balance even though she wasn't moving. "Ashley? Ashley…_Ashley?_"

"Um…Grace?" Ashley answered, her bright brown eyes glittering maple-syrup as she chewed her snack. She was skinny, almost too skinny, dressed in a striped blue shirt and purple leggings, her bare feet pushed together as she stretched her hips.

"Wait…" Izzy asked, startled, "Is…Isn't Ashley your…?"

"Sister?" Ashley grinned, sinking her white teeth into the white flesh of the apple. She held it between her teeth and tightened her ponytail, sending her almost-black hair swinging. She peered at them from under her straight bangs, a mischievous sort of joy on her face.

"Wait, isn't she, you know…" Kratch blurted, but at the word '_dead,'_ a rush of pain met her chest like fire. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think she couldn't act she couldn't -

"Yeah, I'm dead," Ashley laughed, "Lookit, I'm practically falling apart." She shook herself, the movement resulting in a lack of limbs sliding around. She was whole.

"But they found your jacket…" Izzy breathed, "And no one ever saw you again."

"Not dead," the woman confirmed, "_So_ not dead. Alive," she insisted, showing her arms as if that was qualification enough. She looked to Grace expectantly.

Her sister opened her mouth and spoke the first real words she'd said to her sister in five years:

"You ugly _whore_."

xxxxxxx

Sage sat in the middle of the field, watching the two people fight with vicious ferocity. He was painting calmly, marking their movements in streaks. "Now, now, children," he chided sweetly, "Not let's fight."

Mika responded by swinging his fist towards his opponent's face. The boy with a scar under his eye was panting, taking the pain out of his heart by beating it out. He wasn't a little girl. His sorrow turned to anger in a matter of seconds, aggression at the unfair world.

"We've been fighting for the past _two hours,_" Talyn responded, grinning a little, "You probably should have said that at the _start._" She blocked Mika's blow and spun, sending her foot towards his ribcage. They were fighting on even ground: both had taken off their various defensive garments, and had stripped themselves of any weapons outside of their bodies. There was something to be said about exercise: after awhile, you don't have any air left to think about your dead friend.

"Aw," Mika laughed, "Getting tired, Talyn?" he called, catching her foot and twisting it. She flipped her hip and brought her other leg up, spinning out of his hold and landing on her feet. Their banter had been running rampant for the entire time. It added another level of difficulty: they had to focus on a witty comeback as well as their opponent. They were getting better at guessing each other's next movement, and, for them, that just made it more fun.

"Nope," she grinned, "Barely even sweating."

"You're sweating? This is only the warm-up."

"No," she rescinded, "I was only saying it because I feel bad that you're so out of breath."

"I have a cold," Mika protested, "I'm not even trying because of it."

"I don't think you have a cold," Sage piped up, painting the black-dressed fighters. He had a pile of done drawings and paintings to his left and a mostly-empty sketchbook in his lap. All was good.

"Sage doesn't think you have a cold," Tayln repeated, "I think you're all out of breath because I'm beating you down." She dodged a strike and threw her own, changing her center of balance with ease.

"And I think you have a stupid name. Opinions," Mika shrugged, deflecting the blow and sending out his own.

"And 'Mika' is, what, super normal? I'm pretty sure that's a girl's name, by the way," she stated, flipping backwards and sending out a punch.

"I'm pretty sure it's not," he replied, catching it and drawing her close to him. He expected her to compensate and send him a quick blow from the left – probably a feint – but instead she let herself press against his chest.

"You know," she whispered, smiling and bringing her hands up to his face, "I think you might have convinced me," she stated, and then brought her lips to his.

Sage looked up from his painting and raised an eyebrow.

"Take that elsewhere, please. Some of us are trying not to puke."

xxxxxxx

Ike continued:

Gallant Fisher Ivory – Fisher to his friends – was not an evil man. He was the brother to an evil man, a man with straight dark hair and sharp teeth, a man that was promised the world only for his good looks and shallow words.

There was one instance that stood out in Fisher's journal. It struck me as odd, and I wish to relay it to you, because you must understand the life that Fisher possessed.

It was December the 23rd, and Evensong preparations were on. They were trimming a maple tree with decorations of the three angels of weather, bright orbs and popcorn on strings. Fisher was balanced on the edge of a chair, struggling to put the angel of harvest, Shaymin, onto the topmost branch. His tongue was between his teeth and his family was eating sugar cookies. Below him, his brother offered helpful hints and held the chair steady. "Careful," he called, "You'll bite off your tongue," he warned, and how all the family's heart warmed to see the older brother being so kind and caring to his rambunctious little rebel. Poor Fisher, they would think, he's so stupid. He doesn't want to do his homework, he wants to paint. He doesn't want to work, he wants to play the violin. Does he think he will get anywhere like that? Poor Fisher, not nearly as good as his brother.

The family left the room for a moment, going to fetch the candles, and a shadow passed over the brother's face. He gripped the chair harder and tilted it so that Fisher cried out and fell, taking the tree with him. The brother echoed his cry and ran to his side as the family rushed back in, worry on their faces. When they saw what was done, their worry turned to anger. "Fisher," the brother said calmly and smoothly, "I told you that you were too short to hang the angel. Next time, please listen to me," he chided, shaking his head, "You could have been seriously hurt. We can set the tree back up, but think about your own safety for once, ok? Maybe I should be the one to hang the angel this year, ok, kiddo?" he crooned, and Fisher's mouth had hung open in shock.

"_You_ did this," he had responded, "_You_ tipped the chair!" and instead of pausing to consider the possibility, the family had groaned in protest of what they had thought as an outright lie. He was shouted down, frowned at, left alone to set up the tree with his charming older brother.

"You told, you snitch," the brother had said, and then suddenly everything was cracking and pain and a splitting sensation through his head, bright purple spots twinkling in front of his eyes.

He woke up the next morning with a black eye and a newly-casted broken arm, courtesy of a brother with a bright smile and a warm laugh, injuries assumed under a falsehood that his own fault had caused them, that his unbalanced being had shattered through his own lack of diligence.

This is the thing about beauty: we let it rule us.

xxxxxx

It was her death rite, because that was what she deserved.

It was the old traditions: Tarrow sat in the middle of the woods, his head tilted to face the dark grey sky. He was surrounded by seven circles of seven candles, seven rings of waxy color, one for each of the rainbow's stripes, crimson red closest to his body. A bowl of water in a golden basin was in his lap, his hands worrying at seven maple leaves. They were soft: he pressed his thumb against their green and waited until the mark stayed before bringing the leaf to his forehead and settling it on the water.

When he had finished, he cupped his hands to his mouth and blew towards the north, one long, low whistle. He waited until it finished echoing, his head tilted to the side, letting the beasts in the forest respond. They scented the flame of the candles, but it was sweet and loving. He whistled again, drawing it out. Yuki had been purely a child of the air. Her spirit would ride the notes back to Arceus. Five more whistles, lone howling keens against the rain-stiff air.

The basin trembled. He stared at it, confused, before he realized he was crying.

xxxxxxx

Nathan plucked restlessly at his guitar, watching Will make a darkroom out of his wardrobe and a thick black cloth. From the amount of swearing that was going on, it wasn't going very well.

The notes were trembling, like the air around them. Both of the boys, for an instant, could pretend that death didn't hang over them in a thick grey fog. The notes were trembling, like Nathan's heart.

"So," Will called as he tried to make silver nitrate in sheer darkness, "I'm thinking we all should take a road trip."

Pluck, note, pluck, chord. Nathan was writing a song in his head. It was very pretty. It was a shame it didn't translate to his fingers. It was a shame he hadn't decided to learn guitar until recently. It was a shame that the world worked the way it did. It was a shame she was dead. It was a shame Grace was broken mirror. "I don't know," he replied after thinking, "Fitting all of us into a small space would be the work of a master."

"I'm not saying _all_ of us. Just most of us. Besides, I'm sure juggling twenty-something people couldn't be _that_ hard. We'd take two cars, I guess," Will replied, pausing to swear softly again.

"Twenty? How about five?" Nathan shook his head, "Maybe ten. That's as high as I go."

"We could take an Impala. I love that it's named after a mythical creature," Will suggested hopefully, shaking his container of negatives.

"I heard they're super uncomfortable," Nathan stated blandly, pluck twang, "And I'd take a bus. Public transportation is the way of the future."

"Or a yellow submarine, perhaps," Will pondered, "Although if I had a choice, I'd totally take a Charizard. Or perhaps a Dragonite. It'd be all 'Rawr to _you_, traffic!' And then there would be total _destruction._"

"Did you know that your name is in the present tense and it makes sentence structure really hard?" Nathan interrupted, tilting his head to the side. Pluck, pluck, chord.

"I did not," Will admitted, accepting the change in subject with passive grace, "Though I suppose it would be hard, if I was writing a story, to fit me in. I couldn't use future tense, like, ever. It'd be all, 'Would Will will it into being?' and people would be like, 'Wow I am bowed over by all of those words! You are such a better writer than anyone else!' And then they'd make me a plaque. Possibly made out of maple syrup. Possibly out of gold. Granted, if I had the chance, I would totally take a medal made out of Jello."

"Personally," twang, chord, wait that was wrong, move it down a fret, "I would take one made out of gold. Or chocolate _covered_ in gold."

"Although," Will added, picking back up on his previous subject with a wonderful sense of randomness, "I wonder if giant dragon pokemon would like the music I listen to."

"No, Will, they would not," Nathan replied, raising his eyebrows.

"There is no way you could know that," he retorted, grinning while mixing his chemicals.

"Will," the writer sighed, pausing in his music, "I don't know how to tell you this…but…"

"I'm a big boy. I can take it."

"Nobody likes your music, Will."

There was an awkward silence before the photographer's voice resounded shakily from behind the curtain. "My friend," he said, "A greater offense has never been uttered."

"Wait, I can top it," Nathan said, and then his mouth was moving before he could stop it, "I'm pretty sure I'm in love with Grace."

xxxxxxxx

The notes elucidated:

There is more, and I would speak of it, but my time wanes like the ocean. Should you wish to know more, attached are copies of Fisher's diary. In the interest of brevity, however, suffice it to say that Fisher had a childhood wrought with standing in his brother's shadow, watching the true nature of the beast come forth.

Fisher's only hope was the girl. She was bright-hearted and happy, and could change the weather with nothing more than a wish. Fisher would stand outside in the rain with her, and when she appeared, it would be as if he was warm and dry indoors instead of freezing outside, so much effect she had on him. I could wax lyrical on the amount this boy loved that girl, but I must advance to the part of the story where innocence becomes hatred, when Fisher Ivory rebels fully against his brother, the cruel man that had lorded over him for so long.

It was November and Fisher was twenty-four, his brother twenty-seven. Fisher had just returned from his trip abroad, having brought political justice to several war prisoners. He had arrived, hoping to be greeted by the girl he loved, only to discover that the brother he did not love had accompanied her. The two were holding hands and smiling, and it seemed so wrong, Fisher had thought, so wrong to see the two of them like that, the sun and the moon, the winter and the summer, the joy in his life and the hatred he carried with him. In the years he had been bringing peace to countries in poverty; his brother had stepped into the role he had so posed for: a caretaker, a lover, a man. The liar embraced the blonde and had clapped him on the back not overly hard, as if they were just two brothers, as if their lives had been nothing but sugar cookies.

"We are married," the man had professed, "I have a family," and then the world had split down the center for Fisher, out into a million pieces, out into horror, out into pain, out into sheer bright nothingness.

The brother was not a good father, nor a good husband. He believed in a quick hand and sharp words, though he used them less than he had in the past. "I've changed," he admitted one day to Fisher, "I've changed greatly," and for a moment, the blonde had believed him, for we all wish to see the best in the ones we are raised with.

The brother did not spend much time at home. He had a business to run, a horrible business with roots in cult traditions. The man became obsessed with sevens and their multiples. He became obsessed with the runes that marked the angels, he became a man willing to take children and break them for the sake of a little frost experiment.

One day, Fisher received a letter from the man that was all wrecked. It read; "My dear brother: I have good news! Having set up business in one of those glorious third-world countries you love so much, I am beginning the disintegration of their culture. They trust me with a sort of passion I cannot express.

This will be the last thing I take from you. Soon all you want will be mine."

That night, Fisher broke into the house of the woman he had loved for all of his life, and he had taken her back. Fisher writes nothing of his crime, except, "I have defaced the woman who is the sun. Part of her is mine again, and yet I cannot stand to look at her. She is dirty from my touch. One night has trapped her under my hideous claws."

Something broke in Fisher, that day. She could never love him, not after what he had done to her. No one could ever love him. He was a monster.

His brother rejoiced.

xxxxxxxx

Tommi took the case easily as Rhyme strode to the front of the room where they had set up a nice little chalkboard on wheels.

"The Sunflower Project," he said loudly, so that the room of rebels could hear, "Would more aptly be named, 'The Sun _and_ Moon Flower Project,' but the more we confuse our enemies, the better," he smiled, whipping out a silver stick and snapping it against the board. He grinned at Jason, one of the only ones yet to be indoctrinated to the Sunflower Project. Caen was sitting on a stool on the other side of the board, rubbing her fingers across her palm. It looked like she had been crying. Rhyme knew how that felt: at first, the sound of Yuki's death had echoed in silence, but the more that it became reality, the more people broke down in sobs. Most were shocked to realize the emotions they'd bottled up for the past few hours. It had felled too many people so far. It burned at them like a ragged wound. Tommi's report of the Dean's reasoning had made them flare up as if it had been one of their rebel sisters taken, as if it was their own flesh and blood. She might as well have been, though, Rhyme thought, because she could have been any of them.

"As you know," Rhyme stated, "Sunflowers turn to face the sun. In this particular instance, _we_ are the flowers, and _he_ is the sun. Meanwhile, half of us are going to be another flower all together: a flower that only blooms in the night." Rhyme explained, but before he could smile, he heard Yuki's laughter from nowhere. It made him bite his lip and try not to explode. Everyone else was holding together – barely. Their red eyes betrayed them, though. "In short," he said, clearing his throat, "We're going to run a con on our Dean."

xxxxxxx

Ike added:

She was not free of him, not even after he had packed his things and left. His sin against her burned on her skin, tore at her, and yet she loved him so deeply that she could not hate him for his actions.

Seven weeks later, she discovered she was pregnant.

xxxxxxxx

Felix watched the way Thompson folded the napkin: he would ball it up, smooth it out, fold it, ball it up, smooth it out, repeat. His friend was shaking badly. Felix tilted his head to the side. "You're quaking like a leaf in a rainstorm," he commented, folding up his legs and peering at his friend.

"She's _dead_, Felix, what do you expect? In a few months…In a few months…In…" he gasped suddenly, as if he was trying to breathe but was stuck underwater. It quivered like his body: almost destructing from the inside out.

"You'll be dead too!" Felix grinned over his sharp teeth. He knew the answer to this one. This was an easy question, not like 'What happened to her?' or 'How did she know?'

Thompson looked up sharply, and his fist clenched around the white sheet. He was snarling. "Yeah, mate, it's a big bloody joke, it is. Can't you see how much I'm laughing?"

"You're not laughing," Felix corrected, "If you were laughing I would know."

"You know something, mate?" Thompson breathed, "I think I'm gonna go 'n' get me some crisps. You want?" he smiled, and Felix nodded happily. Thompson rose from the bed and chucked the tissue into the trash, brushing off his hands. Calmly, he left the room as if nothing was wrong.

He closed the door.

xxxxxxxx

The story concluded:

Fisher wanted to die, but he did not. He told himself that it was his punishment to live, to carry his horrible nature with him wherever he went. He emptied his bank account and cut ties with his family, leaving the country and changing his name, anagramming it to suit his tastes.

Gallant Fisher Ivory.

Harvey Gillian Frost.

**X-X**

**A.N: Early~! And a chapter filled with plot? What? **

**Sorry if it's a little wierd...I'm sorta really sick...and it reflects in my writing...yeah.**

**I hope you liked an early, plot/backstory-filled chapter :)  
**

**Take care.  
**


	17. Chapter 17

_There are three wishes before you. _It sounded like a prayer, buzzing around his head. It sounded, it sounded, it fizzed and died as he shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped in the building.

Wish one: I wish he would believe me when I lie to him.

The elevator, the hallway, the secretary. She nodded to him and the wooden door opened next to her. The folder was thick in his hands. "M-m-master!" he blurted like palm trees, all ruffled bark. "I'm…I'm terribly sorry for the interruption, but, I – uh- I have information." He was shaking like a wet beast, clumsy fury, sharp teeth. He was scared, happy, scared, proud. He was all at once. He was none.

The eyes in front of him were blue like the color of whimsy, the color of genesis. They were cold, and he considered shivering, but his body spiked with nervous heat. The folder landed with a dull sort of echo on the desk, haphazard and slipping. He lunged for it and shifted it awkwardly, mumbling apologies as he tidied everything back into place. The eyes narrowed. Underneath were lips of ashes. The man had tasted blood.

The room was just so shinybrightglory. Library, fireplace, big wooden desk. An act, the boy thought, it's an act. Look over here where all the pretty books-pictures-words are. Do not look where it is boring. Where it is boring is where the secrets hide away. The boy was uncomfortable. The boy was repeating his wish over and over and over and over and over and –

"_In_teresting, my dear boy, very interesting. Can I ask how you came by such information?" his voice was like smooth cream past its expiration date: trying to be sweet. It tasted like tarmac. The white hand stroked the manila folder like it was a good little pet, sitting pretty.

Would you know the devil if it walked in front of you? Would you know the devil if the devil was one of us?

_I do, I do, I know the Devil true._

The Devil had blonde hair and sparkling eyes. Oh what lie is beauty.

"I…I followed your instructions," he stuttered, the poor boy, while his mind reeled, _Welcome to the Kingdom of Fear, come and stay and cry, I promise that I'll love you, dear, until the day you die._ "I did as you told me to."

"You did as I told you to," satisfaction from the moon-eyed man, "You followed the instructions." He sat back, fingers in a tall white steeple, here is the church, here is the – open the doors, the devil's inside. It started to hurt the boy's head, clawing lies from the inside out/out/out/out. _I wish that he would believe me when I lie to him. I wish, I wish, I…_ The man interrupts with his dust-bone voice, "Tell me, boy, what were your instructions again?"

They flash, repeat, wrong instructions, back to the beginning what were they again? Oh. "I was to infil- uh, infiltrate the, um, rebellion and, uh, I was to take all their information to you." _I wish he would…_

The blue eyes widen, and then they are steel – no, wait, that's a knife, that's his blood in the air, that's a ringing in his ears.

"Good boy," the Dean smiles, "But I'm afraid I don't need you anymore."

Wish number two: I want to live long enough to see my family freed from this man's influence.

He doesn't phrase it right, he realizes, he forgot to make it, "I wish." His blood in a red wave tells him that, tells him that he's gotten it wrong somewhere, that he's gotten it all mixed up and all this sorrow is all his fault.

It doesn't hurt. He chokes, because he can't breathe.

Wish number three, three, three, thre-

It's so light, he's blinded.

_I love you_, and then

nothing

else.

xxxxxxx

His life was silent, but he found ways to talk. Her eyes were wide and frightened, as they should have been. She had just woken up from wherever she thought she was.

He smiled at her, _hello._ Her eyes fixed on him, scared, troubled, ready to cry. She didn't speak sign language at all, so he had to make do. He took her hand and patted it. She tightened her fingers. They were still wet with golden light.

Her eyes were the color of diamond rust. She looked like she ought to be dead. Her skin was melting paper. Part of him worried that she'd dissolve in his hands. She was ugly like this, but he was as ugly as always. The wires in her made this glorious electric funeral, and all he could think was _hello_ again.

"_¿A dónde… a dónde estoy?" _she coughed, and then, surprised, she drew her hand to her throat, a white little fluttering of motion. He smiled at her and rubbed her palm. _Calm down, you're safe now,_ he tried to say, but it was pointless.

"_No entiendo_," she blurted, "¿_Por…por qué…_?" Her half-finished question hung in the air like cinnamon. He breathed it in and grinned, watching as the fresh tendrils of her terror wrapping tight around her chest.

The machine beside her blip-blipped and she let out a startled cough.

"Ce qui se passe pour moi?" she protested, her free hand scratching at the tubes inside of her half-transparent throat. "Faites-vous cela?" He grinned. She had no idea. It was probably so easy for her, talking. So easy. She had no idea how lucky she was. He had to talk around cotton swatches of scar tissue. The machine blip-sparked and she chirped a little frightened yip. She was like a little fluffy creature, all caught up in snow.

"What's happening to me?" she repeated, "What is this? Where am I?" He thought her little sentences were annoying. He glared at the machine. It didn't seem to care, but the wavelengths were fluctuating in such a way that he gave it ten seconds, nine, eight, seven…

"What did you do to me, Patches?" she breathed, and a blush settled across his face. She wasn't supposed to know his name. She wasn't supposed to know anything. That was part of the deal. He wished he was wearing a mask. Absently he reached his free hand up to touch his cheek as her body quaked with the beep-blip-spark of the machine. Her hands trembled. He patted her head and thought, _it is a fluke. Do not worry,_ and he did not.

"_Why is this happening?_" she signed, and Patches grinned wider than the scars along his mouth allowed for. Now, now she was his. Reaching over, he ripped two of the chords from her throat, laughing as she shook with pain, with shock. She wouldn't need that silly voice box anymore. She could talk with her hands. She looked at him, a splatter of ink. She was so, so young. She was so old, so wise, so much of nothing. She was wiped clean; she was a blank sky with all her stars erased.

"_Daughter of mine,_" he signed happily, "_Welcome to the world._"

xxxxxxx

Thompson, frowning deeply, almost slammed straight into Tarrow. The false wizard's eyebrows shot upwards. "Hello," he said as plainly as he could, "Could you tell me why you're in the middle of the woods so close to dark?"

Thompson's fingers twitched outwards hungrily. "I'm feeling…_stabby,_" he declared, "Which, for the purposes of this story - since obviously this is all just some stupid story – here means, 'the desire to cut and-slash-or dice.' So, I am feeling stabby."

"Thank you for the disambiguation, but I'm pretty sure that you're not supposed to _say_ the 'slash' in 'and/or.' I think it's implied," Tarrow stated, brushing his blue cloak calmly. "Of course," he added, "I'm sure the Tarot would tell us," he said it absently, a force of habit. The materials from Yuki's funeral rites were weighing down the black bag on his back. He shifted it higher on his shoulder and wondered if he smelled like pot. It was possible. Incense was known to occasionally have that effect, right?

"Do it," Thompson said suddenly, and Tarrow almost jumped. "You're named for it, right? So you've got to be good," he mused, and then plopped down right in the middle of the ground, his gaze upwards, expectant.

"I am good, but I'm not named for it," the wizard protested, awkwardly shifting to a sitting position, "It depends where you are. I like to pronounce 'Tarot' with as much irony as I can, so it's 'ter-ut' instead of 'ter-oh.' Plus I believe my name is actually, 'Tayr-row,' not that people without the True Sight would be able to understand the difference," he said defensively, clearing the leaves in between them, making room for his little scam.

"I don't think sight has anything to do with auditory recognition," Thompson replied cheerily, "Though I suppose you could have True Hearing too," he added, shuffling the deck Tarrow had given him with a one-two flip that Felix had taught him. No, screw Felix. He frowned and cut the deck in the way of toddlers, slippery and uncertain.

Tarrow watched the action and thought of a man in his past: _burn your lies, son, burn your lies and spread the ashes. We all grow from fresh-scar truth._

He shook his head to clear it and patted the ground, motioning for the psych master to place the cards down. Thompson daintily laid down three cards, smiling at the falsehood in cardboard art. He flipped over his past. The Empress, in her land of a thousand dances. Happiness, harmony, a warm past. Tarrow frowned at it and repeated what had gone through his head. Thompson smiled sadly and nodded. The wizard couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy: his past had always held the Devil.

Present: the Hanged Man. "A sacrifice," Tarrow breathed, "The spirits tell me… Yuki? I'm hearing Yuki. She gave her life for us!" he called, shivering and closing his eyes, palms up. He quaked with the force of imagined spirits. "Yes! They are speaking – no, it is gone," he sighed, deflated. Thompson's eyes glittered with interest. He gave a smile that Tarrow couldn't discern as he stroked the back of the last card.

Thompson was playing a game within the game. He was too trained in psychology to believe in magic. While the wizard was giving a right try at it, Thompson saw the lies on his friend's face quicker than they were told, but it was fun nonetheless, watching how well the wizard fell into his role. At times, Tarrow even believed what he was saying, just a little, and it was during those times that Thomspon found the game to be the most fun. He grinned and flipped over the last card.

Tarrow flinched back, jerking his arm protectively towards his body, staring at the future.

"Holy _shi-"_

xxxxxxx

Scheherazade told one thousand and one lies.

Lie one: I love you.

Lie two: I love you not.

She was thinking this as she moved the body. It was heavy and young. She knew who it was but couldn't think about it. If she thought about it, she would puke or die or worse – cry. She wondered what she was doing, but then she caught the sheen of her blue-silver nails and remembered. She was saving the world.

Lie three: I will save you.

"Caen, darling," her English teacher called, "Just a little bit farther."

Lie four: I will protect you.

They are all watching her, waiting for her to mess up. Spirit Ikusa was collecting bets on Caen's chances of succeeding. So far, Caen knew the smart bet was against her. She wondered if she should put down a fifty just for making it back.

Lie five: I will be there for you.

He was stiff and cold. She thought of him like a large board because if she thought of him as a person, she would explode from the inside out.

Lie six: You are safe now.

He left a long line in the grass. Can't think, can't think, can't think, no, Caen, think of anything else, anything. Inside of her mind, she fixed the image of an ocean, just a square of blue-green waves like the eyes of a boy who spoke in images. Only the ocean. Nothing else. Can't think, can't think, can't think, no.

Lie seven: I love you.

I love you not.

She choked out a sob.

xxxxxxx

All he could feel was his family falling apart under his fingertips. It was like diamond glass set to slow dissolve under the push-pull of the waves, spreading apart across the sea. He twitched with the desire to tug everything back into place, to make things right and whole again, to put the sand back into a seashell.

At one point he had found love in everyone and had replaced in his heart all of the familiar titles he had never known: an uncle, a brother, a sister, a mother. They had been written into the folds of his heartbeat with such clarity that he couldn't scrub them away.

The name "Nathan" made him think _brother_, made him think of Lucario and laughing and a few punches here and there. There was no rage that rose to meet his friend's announcement, just a sort of placid numb shock. It was followed with a clang, deep in his chest, a feeling like gravity was taking its anger out onto his ribcage.

He blinked, the canister of film suddenly heavy in his hands. Something moved his limbs into shaking the negatives and cleaning them, dipping them in the wash before he backed out of his little makeshift darkroom. Lucario, on his bed, chirped with worry, scurrying over and grasping the hem of Will's shirt with an innocent tug.

"Sorry," he smiled at Nathan, "Dude, for a second there, I totally thought you were serious," he realized the crack on his face that his lips formed was making him sick to his stomach. Suddenly he couldn't handle the smell of the chemicals anymore. Everything was the sort of backwards clarity that felt false to him, like an overdeveloped picture, something a little too contrasted.

He strode into the bathroom in the silence that followed and wiped his hand on a towel. When he glanced in the mirror, he almost threw up. The wide-brim grin on his face showed too many teeth, like a voracious carnivore watching a sick prey limp along the grass. It looked stupid. He tried to relax his face, but it glittered there, sick and wet and gummy. He looked like a freak.

"Well," he called, taking the cold of the doorknob in his hand, "Imma go see if I can hunt down Madame Bovary for the photo assignment. Be back at hungry time," he sang cheerily, and slammed the door behind him. It echoed in the hallway, a final note trembling in his heartstrings.

Brother of mine, do you hear this? I love you though you hurt me, for in my heart of hearts, I know the truth of you:

You could save the world.

Will walked away. His world belonged to someone who understood darkness. His world was no longer his.

xxxxxxx

There were four children in the House of Cards: Lily, Bluebell, Colorado and Cherry. Lily was not-always-the-same. Today she was Lily of the Valley and her eyes were the same almost-white as ever. She was looking for Susan and Rose, because they are No More. Lily had skin the color of ivory and she saw nothing but the sheer ebony of blindness. The milky covering over her eyes made her smile when she looked into the world: the world rejected what they did not know.

Bluebell, small and cheery, clambered up the steps to her big sister. "Whatcha doin?" she called happily, dancing in her prettyprettypretty dress and little white satin shoes, smiling broadly at the way Lily-who-was-different felt along the wall carefully. Bluebell tightened her yellow sash and skipped along the hallway. "Are you gonna go see Charlotte? I want to see Charlotte too!"

Lily shook her head. "Rose and Susan. I heard them playing. They must be around her somewhere," she smiled, "They're always playing tricks, those two."

Bluebell froze. She knew where Susan and Rose were, and there was no chance of Lily-who-was-many-people of finding them. They were buried in the dark turn of soil, a little patch under a willow tree, their hands clasped for the rest of forever. One day Bluebell would join them. She knew it in her bones.

"Bell?" Lily called, and the sudden fear in her voice was tangible. Lily hated it when anyone left without telling her. If you left without saying goodbye, Lily-who-was-also-someone-else would be all alone again.

"I'm here," Bluebell said brightly, and the smile replaced itself on her sister's face. "I don't think you're gonna find Rose and Suze, though, I heard they were gonna go to a party. Let's see if we can make Colorado sing for us, huh? Or - uh - o-or we could ask her to tell us her middle name. An-And, I know Cherry's in the kitchen making something again. We could help…" she trailed off when the familiar pain sliced through her.

Lily of the Valley didn't see her sister fall because Lily was blind. Lily didn't see the little blue dress covered all in blood, didn't see the stain spread from the stiches in Bell's skin to her tiny nails, didn't see the way Bell's eyes closed, just for a little while. "Are you coming?" the blind girl called, "I'm going to go get some ice cream!"

Bell put her back against the wall, running her hand through her hair, watching the clumps accumulate in her blood-pale palm. "Sure," she called, trying not to cough at the way her throat was cinching with blood, "I'll be there in a second. Imma…I'm gonna wash my hands, mkay?"

There was blood on the walls then. Bell would have to clean it up, she knew. She watched Lily walk away and felt her heart drop. How terrible the little girl dressed in blue was. She was a liar. She was falling apart. She would leave Lily all alone in the dark.

Those that live in the House of Cards fall quickly, and are replaced as soon. Where there had been a perfect set of seven sisters, there were now only four.

There was a litany: Lantana, Rose, and Susan were sitting in the sun…

There was a litany: In the House of Cards, there is no such thing as death. In the House of Cards, never count your breaths. In the House of Cards, the wealth of love does lie, in the House of Cards, you know you'll never die.

Bell drew a shaky breath, staring at the ceiling, knowing how soon she'd meet the soil.

A breath in, a breath out.

_Lantana, Rose, and Susan were sitting in the sun, when Bluebell came to join them, looking for some fun._

Blood.

xxxxxxx

Nathan's favorite clock in the world was broke-broke-broken, but it worked in the way he loved. It would tick and the second hand would move, but it only twitched backwards in such a way that it was only an illusion. The clock never moved beyond the time it was frozen in, but it appeared to.

He had named the clock Wish, and used to speak to it during his Dark Hours. He used to dream on it, because he honestly believed one day it would start moving again. When it did, he knew, all those wishes would spin into truth, around and around, curling back the lost hours.

The clock was the size of his palm, encased in a little gold frame. He knew Wish was actually just a fob watch, and that it was broken, and that the inscription,"για τον άγγελό μου, με αγάπη" had never been meant for him. The watch was nothing more than a false memory, something to comfort him as he sat on the bed, wishing he could turn back time like that little secondhand, just tick back towards a blurted phrase and make it disappear. But not all things are meant for humanity.

Not all humanity is destined for salvation.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Wishes are nothing more than fabrications, little skeins of vanilla nevergonnahappen.

He wished he could tick-tock-take-back time, just twitch in place like that darling little second hand, always towards nothing but the same broken moment.

"Mother," he said aloud, "Why did you die?"

xxxxxxx

Davion was stretching his calf muscles when Mika appeared from nowhere, a frown on his countenance. He was rubbing his hands together, his eyes unfocused, his teeth pulling slowly on his lips. He completely ignored his roommate and the fluffy Zangoose that was mewling happily as it rolled along the floor with its brother Growlithe, instead turning his iron-covered frame to his suitcase, pawing through the clothes idly.

The dancer looked up, taking his headphones out of his ears, his oak eyes sad. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. He patted the bed awkwardly, smoothing out the creases in the sheet. The silence between them drew out like a sword, flat and sharp. Mika heaved a sigh and clanged onto the mattress, throwing his helmet in front of him and burying his face in his hands.

Davion's eyebrows knitted in concern. He reached one hand out across the gap, but he dropped it halfway, hitting the wall of space he kept between people at all times. A wall could be nothing to you. A wall for Davion was an impassible division that someone as pathetic as he could never hope to overcome. A wall for Davion was the difference between licorice and lead-stained-fists for dessert. A wall and an ambulance ride.

Suddenly, into the silence, Mika blurted out a groan. "Oh my _Arceus_," he swore, "_Fine_," he sighed, "Stop begging me already! I'll tell you what happened if you want to know so badly."

Davion's eyes widened at the muffled words. Someone was willing to talk to him?

"Tayln kissed me. I mean, I kissed her. I mean, it doesn't actually _matter_, because then the worst possible thing happened," he mumbled, "Sage felt like drawing us."

The silence was filled with the trilling of the pokemon and a sort of confused shifting from Davion. Mika, being Lord of Understanding the Silence and Demon of the Stillness That Pervades Confusion, understood instinctively that he should go on. He waited a moment before he did so. Come on. It's not like he was a pretty princess. He wasn't going to go blubbering his drama all in one go.

He cleared his throat and raised his head, staring at the wall in front of him. "He asked about my scar, is all."

When the silence continued, he flopped backwards so his eyes met the ceiling, his hands over the hard metal on his torso. "When I wouldn't answer, Talyn got all girly on me and was all, 'why not?' and something about not sharing enough with her." He blew out through his teeth and flipped onto his stomach, crossing his arms in front of his nose, peeking at Davion over his elbow. "I dunno. Girls are stupid."

Davion's eyes widened knowingly. "Ya got that right, mah brotha," he replied in his maple-syrup voice.

Mika just stared at him.

xxxxxxx

The house was coming apart at the seams like a tattered grey dress, little black shutter patches and ugly navy blue buttons rode the front like a sailor clinging to the mast in a maelstrom, a captain seeing out the last few moments before the ocean swallows the sails.

Rhyme was waiting for her to answer the door. He'd cased her out, just the way he was supposed to. Right in the obituaries, right there in line-by-line ink splotches. Ideally, he thought to himself, adjusting his hat and workman outfit, ideally this was a two-person job. But sometimes accommodations had to be made. He'd done it before single-handedly, he'd do it again.

He could see her through the window as she walked painfully to the door. He knew she had a doctor's appointment soon. Her medical bills must have been high, he thought, watching as she stuck her soft, pale brown eyes out to meet him. Her hair was in a large white mess about her head, and her bony fingers clutched her threadbare outfit close to her chest. He smiled.

The bowler hat tipped easily, a quick flick of the wrist. He waited as she sized him up, watching her squint at him, confused, her mouth open and filled with false teeth. He flashed his real ones at her in a brilliant smile, "Hello, ma'am. I'm terribly sorry to interrupt," he chirped, "But your husband asked me to fix the roof recently, and, well, here I am." He grinned like the sun dying, flaring up before dissolving.

She liked him. She had not seen someone so polite in a very long time. Her sorrow was tangible. "I'm… I'm afraid he's passed away recently," she choked out, her half-blind eyes filling up with tears.

Rhyme managed a surprised and sympathetic face. "Oh!" he breathed, "I'm so sorry for your loss, ma'am. And…sorry for interrupting you in this time of mourning. Your husband was a fine man." The hat took a little trip from over his head to over his heart. He stared at the rundown pathway as if passing a prayer to the dirt. "I'm terribly sorry, again, ma'am. I'll just cancel it then," he assured her, and then walked away.

One step, two steps, three, fou- "Wait!" she called at his back. He looked over his shoulder expectantly, hopefully. He had her now. "I…uh… Well, I guess the roof does need some repairs," she said thoughtfully, looking up to the mess that her house had become. Rhyme didn't know if she could even see half of it. It didn't actually matter in the long run, but sometimes thoughts like that ran like applesauce through his head.

He turned, walking back and wringing his hands nervously. "I…uh…I'd love to, ma'am, it would be my pleasure…" he trailed of, swallowing hard like what he was about to say was difficult, "It's just…your husband- er, your late husband – he had… offered, well, a down-payment," he muttered to the ground, holding the hat in his hands nervously, folding the rim back and forth.

"What?" she said, surprised. He looked up, horrified.

"Ah, I, no, please forget I said anything. Of course I don't need a down-payment. In fact, I should probably do this for free, seeing the position you're in," he stated hastily, using one palm to gesture surreptitiously to her house and clothing.

She folded her arms and squared her thin shoulders proudly. "No," she declared as strongly as her shaky voice would allow, "If Henry agreed to that, then I agreed to it too. I'll pay the full down-payment," she decided, turning to fetch her purse. The checkbook inside was thin and worn. Her hands shook as she took it out. "Henry always handled these things," she admitted softly, clicking the pen and looking at him expectantly. "How much and to whom?"

Rhyme frowned and tried to look adamant. "I can't accept your money, ma'am. It's not right, in light of things."

She shook her head. "How much?" she repeated fiercely, and he deflated, defeated.

"Well, normally its ten thousand, but I simply refuse to take that much. How's five sound?" he said, pausing as if he thought she would take it. Maybe if she would, he wondered, maybe just for one the widow con wouldn't work perfectly. Maybe for once he'd actually have to fight for it. No, he decided, she was just going to hand over a large sum of money and it was probably going to cripple her financially. So it goes.

She smiled and shook her head again, saying, "Seven is as low as I go." Her fingertips with blue-white and skinny, covered in loose skin. The check was made out in the same color ink as the veins over the back of her hand. She drove away in a car that was older than Rhyme was.

Rhyme looked at the house, covered in disrepair and yearning for love. He thought about the snow and rain that was coming with the change in seasons and how much the roof looked like it kept nothing but the sun out. He thought about how much a funeral would cost.

He walked away.

xxxxxxx

Tobi shook as he put the packet down. He should hide it. Or burn it. Or neither. His brain was whirring through things.

Step one, some director inside of his head shouted, Find Ike.

"Alright then," he drawled, "Let's _do _this."

xxxxxxx

"Sorry," her smile was twist-confused-bittersweet, "Did you just call me a –"

"Whore, yeah," Grace snarled, "You _left_ me! In that stupid house with stupid _Amy_ and I thought you were_ dead! _You _left_ me! What, did you think I'd just be all, 'Oh gosh, Ashes, I'm so glad that you're alive! Now we can go back to being besties!' because you show up to save the day? What sort of planet do you think I'm from? I thought you were _dead_, and in all of these years you don't think to yourself, 'hey, maybe I should send a postcard,' or, 'I wonder if Amy is trying to kill Grace again,' or _something?_"

Ashley's eyebrows knit in this little gesture of sorrow, sending a glance towards Izzy and Kratch, who were both trying to melt into the walls as much as possible. "Sorry, honey, I didn't mean to hurt you. If there was any other way, I promise I would have taken it," she sighed, "Things…happened." She tilted her head and a ghost of a grin drifted over her lips. "You called me 'Ashes.' I haven't been called that for forever."

This made Grace frown deeper. "Maybe you haven't been called that for forever because you've been _gone_ for forever! Maybe it's because the only people who called you that thought you were _dead._ Do you know that that _means_? Have _you_ ever lost a sister?" she spat and the woman looked away.

"Yes," she whispered, "I have."

Grace drew a breath defensively, but exhaled it out, holding one hand to her head. She pressed her fingers against her eyes before murmuring, "Just…what _happened?_ Where did you go? Why couldn't you write or call? What were you _doing_?"

At that, Ashley brightened considerably. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wound her fingers in her bare toes. "Oh, that one's easy. I was recruited for a job."

"Let me guess," Grace said dryly, fishing out the two pokeballs that did not belong to her, "A pokemon breeder."

Ashley looked surprised. "What? Oh, no, of course not."

Grace looked at her expectantly. Ashley smiled broadly.

"I became a spy."

X-X

**A.N: Sorry, you there with the sad face. SATs kind of are way more important than fanfiction. Also I am lying to myself and saying that the the number of days I was early is greater than the one day I was late, and if you tell me differently, I will likely experience a mental breakdown and cry while holding a struggling possum to my chest.**

**GUESS WHAT? I have the bestest most best friends In The Entire World, and they made my humble Frost a wiki, which you can find the link to on my profile. Check it out and bathe in jealousy. (Or just bathe in jello.)**

**Sorry this is so weird. My brain isn't working and all my previous documents got deleted, so this is the first chapter in a long time that has been written by scratch. I deserve a medal. Or a possum.**

**You know something, readers and reviewers? I love you. So. Much. So much.  
**

**Absh, sorry and you know why :P Have fun at the party. :)  
**

**Ok so I hope you liked? Cause I mean, there was plot and action, so... Anyway, tune in not next week for the next installment of: The Frost Experiment. **

**Take Care.  
**


	18. Chapter 18

It made him invincible, the cruelty.

He had a trick he favored: he would snap his fingers together, and, as if by magic, little sparks would fly. They weren't his sparks, of course. He wasn't walking through the sort of world that was ruled by magic. He was ruled instead by another sort of push-and-pull: that of darkness and the whisper of the stars, the swishflickslash of a blade.

Swish, flick, slash, it was all the same, every face before him just melting into a little chardonnay of sorrow, slightly woody on the tongue and an excellent lasting flavor, the sort of sticky sour that melts off of their poor little faces.

The House of Cards loved him for who he was: Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. No, that wasn't it. Jack Be Nimble. No. Little lost child standing with a knife, watching as he slowly ends someone else's life. Yes, that was it. He was not a child. He had too many scars to be so young. So old. So covered with rot. Quivering inside, outside – whatever, so it goes.

"Do you know my name?" he asked the person in the chair. The person was trembling. That was stupid. The boy knew he would have instead probably been trying to escape. The trembling just made them tire faster. For a second, the boy with light at his fingertips had mercy. It did not last long. He was empty, broken, a discarded ink cartridge with nothing to his name but black gloves and black hair.

The person in the chair doesn't answer the question. Rude. It wasn't like the person was going anywhere. Kinda tied down or whatever.

"Jacob," he told the man. No, he couldn't think of them with genders. If he made them into people, he would dissolve on the inside. No, this wasn't a person, it was a soft-light highlighter on a plastic skull. Right? No, that didn't even make any sense. "No, Sparks. Everyone calls me Sparks. Not you. You don't call me anything. You don't because you have no idea what I am."

Feather scampered up his shoulder and made an inquisitive chirping noise. "You want me to clarify?" Sparks laughed, "I think Feather wants me to clarify!"

The person did not look like it cared. It was sad. It was so sad. It was ugly – so much uglier than the torture that Sparks was going to provide. Yes.

"I am a monster," he whispered, and it was true.

In the dark room, his black-brown eyes glittered with lightning. And then the sound of salvation.

Would else could you wish for but for the endless torture of a fresh blade?

xxxxxxx

The room was so empty after Thompson left. It echoed horribly, making wind in Felix's ears. He was frowning and staring at his nails. They were long and sharp, as cruel as the teeth in his mouth. There were black lashes around his golden eyes, and there was strength in the sinew of his arms. He was as much beast as he was burden. Humanity only blinked and saw the shadows where the moon was shining.

He closed his eyes, but it was no good. In the silence, his head rang with memories that were like acid to the touch, slowly dissolving him from the inside out. He peeked at his wrist, where the scars were but the blood wasn't. He used to draw on himself when he was younger, cover himself with ink to hide the burns and cuts and bruises. He liked to think the symbols had sunken into his skin and now ran in his veins, black and filled with certainty.

It was pointless to fight it, the memory was coming anyway. It was untainted, it was impossible to escape. It was his mother, standing before him and frowning, her brown dress covered with flour and her white apron covered in syrup.

He was young. Six. He had pudgy hands and a toothy smile. He had black hair around his head and he was reaching out to her, pleading. She tensed at the idea of his touch, and he withdrew uncertainly. But no, the smile returned, she had forgiven him for an instant. She had forgiven his eyes and hair and teeth and claws. She had forgiven her little monster.

_Come here, honey,_ she had said, her voice shaky yet sure, her large hand wrapping around his small one. She pulled him into the kitchen happily, and for a second he believed she loved him and was going to teach him how to cook, show him that she loved him, show him he could be loved. She sat his restless body on a stool and put his arms out onto the table, rummaging through the cabinets before she found what she needed.

It was a beautiful blade: smooth and silver. She walked to his side and smiled at him, flipping his arms so that his palms faced the ceiling. _Mommy is going to teach you how to rid this world of demons,_ she had cooed, her voice so calm that Felix concentrated intensely, sure that his parent would teach him nothing but the joys of magic.

She put it against his tiny wrist, the cold sharpness weary against his skin. He remembered wondering what he had done wrong when it bit into him. It was quick and merciless. It was not painful at all until the blood started flowing and she was working on his other side. It was then that he started screaming and moving, where the wound on his right arm became a jagged diagonal instead of a sterile straightness.

The feeling of the blood leaving his body was something he would never forget: it felt like being emptied, it felt like a headache and being clouded with cotton. It made him want to throw up and made the world turn colors of purple and black. All he could hear was his own shriek, high and restless and horrified.

He knew how the story ended: he woke up on the floor in his own sanguine sadness, surrounded in his beautiful red lacquer, on his side, staring at the gaping rip in his skin. He knew how it would go; he'd sit up and stare at himself, unsure of what to do. He would wrap a paper towel around himself and stagger away. He would find his mother talking to the neighbors, and she would scream and hurry him to the hospital. She would say he had cut himself by accident and he wouldn't say anything at all. He would be quiet and well-behaved while the nurses sent the boy-beast frightened little looks, while he was stitched back together, while his mother drove him home, while she closed him in a closet and locked the door.

Sitting in the darkness, Felix had lost his heart.

xxxxxxx

Izzy saw the look on Ashley's face and pursed her lips. The blonde gently took Kratch's hand and slipped out of the room. "Come on," she whispered, "This is a family matter."

The two stood in the hallway awkwardly for a moment, the door warm against their backs. "So where do… we go?" the blonde drawled, looking at her confused friend. She laughed at the look on the pianist's face. "Don't worry about them. Everything that happens to Grace is super dramatic. It's a little tiring, actually," she commented, licking her lips. "Personally, I'm glad to be away from that. I'm going to go suck a helpless orange of its blood. Join if you wish."

Kratch put her finger to her mouth and tipped her head to one side. "I could go for some yogurt, now that you mention it."

"Oh, good choice. I am _always_ in the mood for yogurt. It's a state of being, actually. You must be _one_ with the sweet breakfast choice."

"It's true, though," Kratch laughed, walking beside the violinist as they made their way to the cafeteria, "I had to study for many years under a guru before I passed the test of True Yogurt."

"Please," Izzy snorted, "I _am_ the guru."

It was very sweet, if irrelevant.

After all, what is laughter in the face of death?

xxxxxxx

"I'm not bad," he purred, "I was just written that way. Or whatever that cute little adage is."

But he _was_ bad, truly awful. Sometimes, when the moon hit the center of the sky and he was awake and alone, sometimes he remembered that. But not right now. Please. Come on. Right now he was so whole and together and not at all coming apart at the seams, not bursting with self-hate, not dissolving and drowning and dying. Please.

The person in the chair was bleeding, everywhere. It was horrible. The person in the chair had two daughters and a dead wife. The person in the chair had been kidnapped and tortured, and Sparks knew everything about him. His name was Maxwell Anderson, and he was coming apart quicker than Sparks was, a black ball of yarn unraveling all onto the floor. Oh wait. No, that was just blood.

There was so much of it, turning brown on the black tiles. The man's face was torn open like the devil: a wide crack in his skin. Sparks talked to him, waiting for him to revive. People who got tied to chairs just weren't made like they used to be. His voice was mostly just a babbling murmur. He liked the idea that the first thing someone heard after the sweet safety of darkness was the voice of their tormentor. The boy in black had swung another chair around, his arms resting on the back, straddling it and running his mouth.

"We could blame it on my past, if you like, but I feel like there's been too much talk about the past recently. That's all I ever hear, 'Oh, woe is me, I had a terrible middle-school experience and am now a killer.' It's not like that at all, although, since you asked, I did have a pretty terrible middle-school experience. I don't really know anyone who thinks of those years as their best and brightest." He paused and took a swig of water, thinking. He'd been pretty talkative lately, he thought, and that's why he felt so much like he was about to be sick. The sound of his own voice in his ears, maybe. No, it probably wasn't the man in the chair [no, it was the _person,_ the _person_ in the chair] and the sanguine stains on the floor. No. Whatever, it didn't matter. He'd be fine. Seriously.

He tilted his head upwards and closed his eyes. Sometimes he liked to pretend he was standing above his body and watching his actions. It made it easier, somehow, thinking that he wasn't doing it. But he was, and he knew it. Whatever, the world turns and the Earth continues; whatever, the blood spatter would clean with lye, whatever, his life was one terrible horrible thing after another, whatever, he was stuck and wanted to die and hated his life and was in too much debt to leave and was scared that he'd spend his afterlife burning. Whatever, we all die, whatever.

But sometimes he enjoyed imagining what it would be like to die knowing people loved him.

But no one ever would.

xxxxxxx

It was the music: thump thump thump. It pumped into his body, the beats heavy and pulsing. It was dance music, and it made him bounce a little where he sat, watching her destruction. Patches had strapped her to the bed, had smoothed out her pretty white dress. She looked dead. She looked alive. She looked like the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Everything she was, Carmen was not. No, he had to give up his friends. Worth it. Yes.

Two little spider legs of metal pried her eyes open. He had placed a television in front of her and had it playing on a loop, letting her drown-drown-drown. The beats made his thoughts come in patterns of threes and fours. He was practicing his isolations: his fingertips brushed his shoulder and they shifted to the left. It was sort of peaceful, watching as she learned/relearned/relearned what it meant to be human.

She was crying, he realized, and suddenly the music sounded empty and cruel. He reached out one hand to comfort her, but then remembered he had no place doing so. He was taking her voice and making it his. Maybe then he'd be able to tell Carmen what she meant to him. No, it didn't matter. No. Not only that, but Carmen would have been wrecked to hear her best friend was in love with her. He couldn't do that to her. It was enough that he was leaving her without explaining.

_I'm so sorry_, he signed. But it didn't matter.

Nothing ever matters. We lie to ourselves by saying it does.

We all die in the end anyway.

xxxxxxx

Felix slid off the bed. He had quite a lot to do and only so much time to do it in. Restlessly he slunk down the hallways until he found Rhyme's room. He had never favored the small boy, if only because he saw the poet as his mirror: heartless, cruel, your best friend. But things were changing too quickly, a fire to the lillies. The sound of his knuckles on the door echoed dully. The door swung open slowly. He jiggled the doorknob and heard the faint clicking that signified someone before him had picked the lock.

His eyebrows shot upwards. "Hello?" he called, uncertain if he should go in or not.

He felt her beside him before he saw her: Spiral. He tried not to meet her eyes, but she was there all the same, leaning against the wall beside him, her sharp-tooth smile a nestling of needles. Her eyes were his amber ones, he knew, but hers were wide and almond-shaped, rimmed with such thick black lashes that she looked even closer to a beast than he did. She was wearing a halter-top white flowing dress, and he knew that the low back would show off one of her rash decisions: a pair of tattooed wings over her shoulder blades, small and beautiful. It was her favorite outfit because she liked to imagine that she was an angel in it.

"It's ok if you go in," Spiral said, her voice the same way it always was: his, but female. That was what happened when you were siblings; for some reason you're always just another version of one person. "I would. Someone could be hurt," she added, and he stepped forwards, leaving her in the hallway. But Spiral, full of the same magic Felix had, was already sitting on a bed, holding something in her hands. He didn't look at her right away. Sometimes, to bother her, he'd wait to acknowledge her existence.

She didn't seem to mind this time, watching him as he scoped the room, peeking in the bathroom to see if the residents were just in the shower. But the room was empty, and at a loss for someone else to talk to, he turned to his sister, who was running her sharp fingers through her brown-black hair. She grinned when he caught her eye, holding up a piece of paper.

"I found the clue before you did," she laughed, handing it to him, "I get a gold star!"

He took it from her, mumbling, "Yeah, for once you managed to accomplish something. Indeed, gold star for not being a complete failure." He ignored her indignant squeak, reading the scrap of newspaper he'd been handed. It was an obituary. So Rhyme was out on a con, then. Ok, that was fine. But where was Jason? Felix wondered if the new kid to the rebellion was out doing freshmen stuff. Probably. Felix relaxed. Some kid probably broke into the room to steal headphones or something.

"I was just thinking about mom," Spiral announced from where she was searching under the bed, "And she's still a crazy whacko in hindsight. I promise absolutely nothing has changed," she laughed, "She was still a jerk to us."

Felix shrugged and dipped his own head under the opposite bed, shifting through the dirty clothes and lost homework assignments. "In fairness," he paused to slither his torso farther under into the darkness, "She did feed us pretty well."

"Remember when…" she giggled and continued, "When she made _you_ cook? And you totally made cereal in the _microwave_ and forgot to take the spoon out and it blew up everywhere? And the door slapped you in the face?"

"Still not as bad as that time you tried to make doughnuts for Mother's Day and ended up burning both of us with the oil," he called defensively, but he was smiling. "Hey, I think I found something, you," he added, and started making his way to the other side, towards the light.

She snickered and remarked, "At least I didn't make _you_ eat mud pies," she replied. "You were legit the worst brother in the world for doing that! And I _trusted_ you."

"Oh yes," he grunted, weaving past a suitcase, "You should be so worried about mud consumption when you listen to country music and Justin Bieber." The task of getting out was harder than he had anticipated, and from the sound of her voice, she'd outmaneuvered him.

"Because Noisecontrollers and Secondhand Serenade are two bands which are _exactly the same,_" she bit back, and he grinned. He'd missed the sibling banter. He managed to make his way to the other side and stand up, looking at her as she glared at him from the other bed.

"I didn't say it was the difference that bothered me. It's the stupidness that bothers me," he said, and peered at the folder in his hand.

"Stupidness isn't a word," she retaliated, but she hopped over the bed to peek over his shoulder, her hand cold on his shoulder.

The smile dropped off his face at the file in his hand. "Jason was on an assignment," he said slowly, flicking through the pages.

"So…?" she drawled, putting one hand out to slow him so she could read a page.

"So where is he?"

She shot him a look and grinned. "Why don't we find out?"

xxxxxxxx

Eilsa was painting when he found her. Feather, of course, jumped off of his shoulder and scurried for Echo. She was nodding her head to the music in her ears, whirling the brush to shade in a red face: it was screaming black spirals out onto the background. She didn't look up when he came over, but that wasn't really a surprise. Sometimes she would never acknowledge him. Maybe today it would be different. Maybe she would glance up and smile, brushing her hands off on her pants, the tribal patterns on her hoodie rippling with the efforts of her motion. She'd call him by name and giggle at the way Echo and Feather tumbled together. Maybe. Maybe not.

The gold bracelet on her wrist jingled, the charms gliding past each other. She had the four charms of the House, but she had some for her accomplishments, too: a star for her first kill here, a circle for her first year in the House there. Her bracelet was thick with the little gold pieces, like his was. But his had silver shot through it, and he wore only the four House charms. The rest of them would have numbered too many to fit onto just one bracelet. It was tied to a string and sat against his bicep, like the way he used to wear it around his neck. But being in the House had its prices for all the power it gave. Sometimes the pride wasn't worth the payment.

"Hey," he said to her, because, whatever, they weren't getting any younger and it's not like she could hear him. The music blasting in her ears was classical this time. It sounded like _Entrée de Myrtha _from _Giselle_, but he could never be sure. At one point, when maybe yes maybe no he'd been attracted to her, he'd asked if it was written by Beethoven. The look she had shot him had been so dirty that he'd felt singularly uncomfortable. Whatever. Currently, he didn't care if she stripped in front of him. So yeah, payment to the House was terrible. So was war. You had to learn to live with it or you would never be contented.

Echo was so perfect for her. Sparks liked to imagine that she was blind in her own way, like the way he had slowly lost his vision of morality and those stupid things people complained about. Emotions, or whatever. Echo's blindness was like his own: grey and fearsome. They'd both compensated. Sparks just had a slightly different way of making himself feel better for not feeling anything.

"So I questioned the person," he yawned, even though he was pretty sure the _Pas de Quatre _of Swan Lake was drowning him out, "He said something that I'm sure you'd love to hear." He put his back against the tan wall and stared at the ceiling, the red rug under his feet thick and soft.

She slowly put her brush down and faced him, waiting. He liked that. It wasn't like he was chatty or whatever, it's just that once in a while, it was good to feel like someone was listening. She was always listening. Or maybe not. Maybe she was only waiting for the song to switch so she could go back to not looking at him.

"He said he knew where Ashley was," Sparks purred, "And you know what that means."

Her face split was a smile. This was her favorite song. She loved singing it. "Field trip!" she called, and he laughed, standing up and brushing his hands off.

Now, where did that knife get to?

xxxxxxx

We are all liars.

It was a truth as heartless as it was ingrained in Tarrow's mind.

Before him was the face of the man who had corrupted him so wonderfully: square and scarred, rough with stubble and steel-colored teeth. But eyes that looked like you could trust him. You couldn't. Between a monster and this man, Tarrow would take a chance with the monster. But that was hindsight. It was wonderful.

He had been so young when he ended on the streets, lost, hungry, pathetic. He had tried to steal from a woman's pocket, and at her shriek, a tall figure had swooped forwards and apologized profusely, gotten her to laugh at a tricky little nine-year-old. At first, Tarrow had been nothing but thankful.

But Canon was nothing short of the devil in a man's body. From that point on, it was nothing but beatings and lessons in lying, in conning, in cheating at cards and on his girlfriend. Canon put ice into a boy made of fire, destroying him.

The card in front of him was the same card he had always drawn for Canon: Judgment, reversed.

"What?" Thompson asked, concerned. The fear on Tarrow's face was completely true. "Is that bad?" He stared at it, trying to figure out what exactly he had done. It looked fine to him. Card, in the future space. It wasn't floating or anything, possessed by demons. It just looked like painted paper on dirt. Really pretty scary, apparently.

The words that next came out of Tarrow's mouth sounded like stolen lyrics. "No," he grinned widely, "Of course it's fine. I'm sorry, I must have mistaken it for something else. Oh well. I guess you will have a perfectly average life. It will be nice with some problems. I think we're done here," he babbled happily, swiping his fingers over the cards and folding them into his hands. He stole the rest back hurriedly, standing and shouldering his backpack. "Good for you, hooray, or hurray, if we're using your accent."

Thompson stood too, but slower. He dusted off his hands and raised one eyebrow. "I don't have an accent, mate."

Tarrow paused long enough to send him a look. "That is precisely what I'm talking about, _mate._" He whirled around, a curve of blue cloth, and strode away.

"Well," Thompson said slowly, awkwardly, "I don't suppose _that_ made any sense at _all._"

xxxxxxxx

Will was sitting in a tree. Well, leaning, really. He sort of wanted someone to walk by and stare at his amazing tree abilities. It was like he was a ninja, but better because he imagined he looked pretty hot at the moment, seething and dark.

He would tell them that he wasn't talking to anyone at the moment; couldn't they see that he was being moody? And they (it would be two girls, he decided, really hot girls) would protest that he was too good-looking and generally amazing to not talk to them; could he please spare them a few words? And he, being the generous kind of person, would offer them some sage advice: it's very rarely worth the worry. They would gasp prettily and ask what the matter was and how it was possible he was so smart. He could see their faces now: wondering and gorgeous. Like Barbie, he thought, but physically possible. Their mouth would fall open at the way he said things.

Well, he would murmur, Love just is too much of a game. And they would protest that love was like sitting in a tree, it was a balancing act between the risk of getting hurt and the glory of being high. He would mull that over and send them a slow, delicious smile, flicking his hair away from his eyes. Then he would swoop down and put his lips against theirs. She had soft lips, he thought, soft and sweet. She would push him away playfully, and then giggle. She would say something sweet.

"_What in the name of all that is holy are you doing attached to my face?"_

No, that didn't sound right. Will opened his eyes.

"Oh. Mika. Hello," he greeted the knight, "Did you know that you have very soft lips?"

Mika was sputtering. No, that wasn't it. Mika appeared to be having a full-fledged breakdown. "First _Talyn_ kisses me, then Davion practically _chases _me out of my own room, and now _you?_"

"They taste like… is that vanilla sugar? Do you moisture or something?" Will asked, smacking his lips.

"It's chapstick – _why am I telling you this?_ You swung out of a tree and _kissed_ me."

"Yes," the photographer admitted, "I do hope you enjoyed it half as much as I did. What were you saying about Davion, darling? Do you want to talk about it?"

"He got all weird and talk-y on me – _don't call me darling," _Mika growled, "I am _no one's_ 'darling.'"

"Aw, honey, if you don't want to make it official, that's ok too," Will purred, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"Screw you," Mika replied, turning on his heel, "This conversation is _over_." He walked about two feet before he turned around again, "And that kiss _never_ happened, do you understand?" he called ferociously before striding away, mumbling something about the worst day in his life and how wearing a helmet should be allowed if only to stop sexual predators.

"I love you too, sweet lips!" Will shouted after him, "I'll never forget today." He knew he wouldn't, either. His first kiss to a boy? It was kind of a hard thing to block out.

"Oh he's _gay_," came a female voice. "That explains _so_ much," she said. Will whirled around to see Talyn slip out from behind a tree. She didn't even acknowledge him, but instead drifted slowly after Mika, muttering to herself about ten percent of all people being fantastic.

Suddenly her eyes met his. "He _is_ gay, right?" she demanded, and he shrugged.

"It _is_ come-out-of-the-closet week," Will stated, and she nodded, looking away. He knitted his eyebrows and mouthed, _what the fu-_

"Yeah, I thought he might be. He… I don't know, he…" she frowned and trailed off, but at least she offered him a smile. "So, congratulations, I guess," she said happily, before she went off to stalk her new gay best friend.

Will decided it was probably best to stay out of trees anyway. Everything was much safer on even ground.

xxxxxxxx

Nathan hummed songs that ran inside of his head. They bled together, sometimes, into just one held note. He liked to sing it and pick it out on his guitar now and then, sometimes just singing to hear his voice, hear the words. What came out, came out.

A melody, down up, down up.

"I pledge my loyalty undying to the Dean of Frost…"

He blinked. When had he heard that?

xxxxxxx

"You know something," Tobi said out into the world as he scurried up the steps, "Sometimes I feel like I've been thrown into a situation for the sheer purpose of saying a line or two. I imagine it's because whoever is writing my life loves me the best and hates to leave me out of any sort of drama," he stated dryly.

"Uhm," Davion said from behind him, "Do you need help or something?"

xxxxxxxx

"What do you mean, 'who's Patches?'" Carmen laughed, patting her head lovingly. "The two of you are friends, remember?"

Mimi sent her a look. "No, seriously. I'd remember a name like Patches. I don't know him."

The last thing Mimi could remember: a man that melted out of the walls.

No, before that: a man with a scarred smile and a needle full of poison.

xxxxxxx

Felix made his way through the forest, watching as Spiral made her own path through the trees, complaining loudly. "This is stupid," she said, "I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he's meeting with his girlfriend. Maybe he decided to quit this rebellion thing. He's his own person. Maybe he already reported back, and you just didn't hear about it."

"It's important," he replied, bringing his fingers to a broken branch. "Not only that, but he should be harder to track. If nothing else, he'll get a nice chiding out of this." He sort of liked her chatter, all in all. He was someone else around her, someone who knew love. Someone who could breathe and remember and live with him, someone who understood what made him all black-watch broken.

The path was suddenly bisected by what looked like someone dragging something. Felix bit his lip and turned to face the sudden new path, walking along it. "Wanna follow the other one?" he asked her, and she shook her head.

"It's getting dark. I've been in these woods about six times. No way am I splitting up with you," Spiral scoffed, stepping over a large log. She picked her way through the leaves slower than he did, so by the time he found Caen, she was far behind.

It was a small meadow, one of the many plains that the Frost campus was home to, full of sort lavender flowers. Caen was standing in the center of it, a black strike against the glitter. She was staring at the ground like she was considering throwing up. Slowly, as not to startle her, Felix made his way out across towards his friend. He called out to her, but she didn't respond, barely twitching to show she'd heard him. Behind him, Spiral was just reaching the meadow.

Six feet away, Felix began to feel the world warning him. He knew it was called foreboding, and yet he was not slowed.

The body was a thick blob against the blue-purple of the flowers. It lay, face up and horrible, eyes closed against the sky. Caen was standing over him, and she was crying, although silently. "They made me move him," she croaked out, "They ma-ma-m…" she cut herself off, shaking with sobs. She covered her face with her hand, but then reconsidered, returning to staring at what she had done. To her, it was her punishment. She had to see what horror she was.

Spiral arrived silently at his shoulder, gasping and covering her mouth with one hand, shutting her large amber eyes as if it would make the death disappear.

"_Jason_," Caen called, her voice a crack against the grey sky.

xxxxxxx

It started raining. Patches watched it drip down the glass, his arms wrapped around his body. He pressed his forehead against the cool pane, trying to block out her damaged hisses of breath. He knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to scream.

He snuck a look at her as her body writhed with pain, a thrash of motion against her bonds. Her chest heaved with another silent shriek. The doctors whirled around her, sticking needles in, taking stitches out. But her voice was no longer theirs to take. The machine had done enough, after all.

He looked at the bracelet in his hand: it was new, a ruby-gold band with four charms on it. He sort of liked it. His was akin to hers, but green where hers was red. And his had two more charms, glittering and glossy against the air. He wore it around his ankle. She, he thought, would wear it around her arm proudly.

It must be like a nightmare, he thought, to wake up and never be able to talk again. His lips, scarred and scabbed, curled up into a knowing smile. Oh, it was a nightmare all right.

But the thought was interrupted with the image of a blindingly bright girl, someone who loved him the way he was, someone that spoke in his tongue and wanted nothing but a friend.

He'd failed her, he realized suddenly. She trusted him to remain neutral, to be her last hope, her proof that not all men are vicious. And he'd done the worst thing he could. He'd fallen in love with his best friend.

Slowly, behind him, the room cleared. He paced towards her bedside. She was panting, her eyes rolling a little. She'd rejected the first dose. It didn't matter, most people did. She'd be living the lie pretty soon. She'd be just another one of them. She'd be wonderful. She'd be better than Carmen. Yes. She had to be.

He slid the bracelet on her thin wrist, the four charms letting out a pretty jingle. He smiled and mouthed her initiation.

_The House of Cards welcomes you, Yuki._

xxxxxxx

The body was nailed to his door.

Tommi swore.

X-X

**A.N: Sorry sorry sorry! I know, right? This is late. I rewrote it about six times for each paragraph, and I still hate it. But there is plot. I know, right, since when do I do plot? We are all surprised.  
**

**The two new characters in this chapter were (I know, you missed this little blurb):**

**Jacob Sparks: FearthePika  
****Eilsa Tarragon: Gweniveve Skyes**

**It only took me, what, forever? Yeah, sorry about the wait.**

**I love everyone who reviews, and I love everyone who reads. Thank you all very much, you keep Frost going :)**

**The story will continue in two weeks. See you then, I hope :)**

**Take care.  
**


	19. Chapter 19

We lie to ourselves when we say that words are the crux of self-immolating sorrow, that despite their invincibility of an instant, they are just flowers in the wind and are therefore an intrinsic commodity to be taken for granted. We lie and say that forgiveness is had in the resolution of two quick breaths, that we control our language and not the other way around, that anything said can be unsaid if one waits long enough, that words are as equally fragile as they are furious, equally enduring as they are effervescent.

But there is immortality in those feathers, in their rain-patter tattoo, there is control, there is the scattered hope that the meaning one derives is equivalent or at least close to the level that the other sees. It is the idea of relative planes in physics, and the wish that the slow-motion actions on a fast-moving distant star make as much sense as your own frame of reference does. Words are the grey curl you never remember, they are sliding at the tip of your tongue and babbling and broken.

Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you.

Anyone who told you that knew nothing beyond their own selfishness and a sick desire to lie. They understood nothing of the impenetrability of silver ice.

They do not know pain.

But then, what is pain but just another lie?

xxxxxxxx

Tarrow woke up panting, fingers tangled in leaves, hair like ivy around his head. He drew a shaky breath and tried to unclench, but something was holding him hostage, wrapping mercury talons into his ribcage. His phone was buzzing in the debris of the forest floor, and he scurried his fingers after it. He stared at the caller I.D and tried to figure out why every part of him screamed with a particular sense of foreboding. He tapped the screen and brought it to his ear.

"Tarrow," Caen half-sobbed, and he felt something very akin to horror slide its path down his skin. She sounded like she was crying. Caen never cried, not for anything. "Tarrow, they got Jason. I don't know how they got him, but they got him. I'm…I'm hiding his body so that they can't… you know…" she drew a heavy breath, like she was sucking in wool. "I don't know what to do."

The phone blip-blipped, and Tarrow stared at the waiting call. Two impossibilities in one day: it was _the_ number. "Tommi's calling from _there_, Caen, I have to go," he blurted, hanging up and slamming the "Connect" button.

"Nico… is dead…" Tommi choked out. "They… They nailed his body to…"

"I'll be right there. I'll call you from a pay phone and we can discuss them deets later, or however the cool kids suggest that they will talk of death," he announced calmly. He pulled the phone away and turned it off, sliding it into his pocket while thinking. Things were coming, horrible things, and if he really had to think about them, he would explode from the inside out, like a little crystal class clattering against the concrete.

He stared up at the sky and took a long, slow breath.

This is the way the world ends,

One body at a time.

xxxxxxx

This is the way he worked, because he'd been taught to work in that way: there were sparks at the end of his finger and words at the front of his tongue. Maybe sometimes always he was a demon with a boy's blood, like endless ripples just traveling out in circles, because he was the rebound and never the rock, he was the sound waves and never the drum, instead of fangs all he had was fingers.

Hi, my name is Jacob and it's been zero years and zero months and zero hours and zero minutes since I killed a man, look, his blood is still coating my hands. Do you know how hard it is to wash blood off? No you don't because you've never done it before, you've never protected yourself against any of their desires, lest their love gets inside of you and you die too. It's the same, the shower is a hot mess, you're standing there naked waiting for the killer around the corner, no one understands you, you're just a boy.

He wished things were simpler, but he knew wishes were what you spent when you had nothing else. Every wish is just another broken promise waiting to happen. He knew that the earth cracked silver, but it didn't matter in the end either way, right? It only mattered what the master wanted, right?

He was washing off blood in a black-bone basin.

Today was his birthday.

xxxxxxx

The nightmare continued: You think you know abuse, because you think to yourself that you would know it when you see it, like the end of the universe and the rise of civilization, and besides, as long as it's not happening to you.

Not everything is what you imagine it to be, because that's just it: you go home and console yourself that abuse is glass cuts and a baseball bat, you go home and imagine a horrible thing and you write it down and it's a story. It's words again, and he can't hurt you anymore, he can't hit your little sister and make her cry and take a two-by-four to your older brother. Because you're imagining it, even when you're not, because it's not abuse, because it can't be abuse, because you love him.

But that's not abuse, because if it was the belt every now and again, you could get used to that. It's in his words, because he says something and you jump and you're doing what he told you to before realizing that somewhere in there he managed to slip in some terrible comment about just that one thing, about how much of a waste of space you are or how no one would ever marry you with a face like that, with a body like that, how he can't imagine how you get out of bed each morning knowing you have to spend the day with that stupid brain and those ugly clothes and that body dripping like clay from your bones.

They are just charcoal strikes, and they don't hurt if you don't let them, so he moves on to these comments about your siblings and your friends and your mother crying at night and the people you love, and it's never over, you can never escape, it's all the same and one day you break down and throw a punch and then you're on the ground bleeding out of the side of your mouth while he kicks you and screams Why Are You Crying I'll Give You Something To Cry About.

You do cry, because you can't help it and you can't breathe and everything goes black and when you wake up, everything happens over again, hospital, home, back to the locked room when he's getting ready to hit you.

But one day you wake up on the streets, he's just a dream and now you're in the nightmare.

You just wish you didn't feel so guilty about everything, because somehow you know that it's all your fault.

xxxxxxx

"Actually," Tobi admitted, "I _do_ need help, now that you mention it."

Davion just looked at him. Sure, the model wanted to help, but he didn't know if he'd be able to. Davion wasn't worth much, even on a good day, and all of his good intentions only led to bad memories.

"I'm looking for Ike. He gave me this…well, he gave me this thing. Actually, I think last time I was talking to him, he told me he was going to the library to figure something out. Wanna join my quest?"

Davion liked Tobi. Tobi didn't really ever want anything from him, and never raised his voice and didn't mind the silence. Tobi was the kind of guy that girls should like. Told would not have been ruined. But Davion wasn't broken, because beauty is whole. Right?

The model shrugged in the affirmative and tilted his head to the side. "We have a library?" he asked, trudging up the stairs next to the filmmaker.

"Evidentially. Personally, I think whoever is directing our lives realized that he left out a library and kind of just slapped it on top of the dorms," he noted, "And then figured that no one was going to go to it, so he forgot to slap in an elevator too."

"Or she," Davion corrected, "It could be a she."

Tobi ducked his head, "Or she," he amended. "Whoever they are, they're sick in the mind."

"I don't know," the deep-voiced swimmer said, staring up at their path, "Life isn't all that bad." Because it was true, and nothing was so bad, at least you're alive, take a breath, love the world nothing hurts nothing scars everything is tanned skin everyone is smiling everything is beaches everything is –

_You sick little boy, look what you're making me do, look at what you did, look at your blood on my fist._

"No," Tobi said, breaking the model's thoughts, "That's not true. Sometimes things _are_ bad. But, I mean," he paused on the landing, panting a little, "It's the good parts that you have to think about, I guess. Life is either good or it's bad, but it's never both. Well. I don't know what I'm saying."

But Davion did: the world was all a turning of fate, up, down, up, down.

And right about now, it started spiraling towards a deepness. They were going up up up and the rest of the universe was going down with a bang, without a parachute, without a paddle, everything was heading out in a hand basket. He just knew.

Too many memories collided and told him where he had gotten this information, but of course it was from experience. Just when you're safe on the stairs with a person you think you might be friends with, he opens the door to the library and out of nowhere a boy with a black machete lets out a growl.

"Wow," Tobi admitted, "_You_ look like a fun kid to hang around with."

Then everything turned to nothing, just like the world.

xxxxxxx

The nightmare reminded: The good and the bad gets mixed in there, in your mind, until it blurs – a baby wrapping their hand around your finger and then it's his hand, breaking your bones. A girl with the world in her eyes and then it's your brother bleeding. Your high school graduation and then it's the empty seat where your mother belongs. Sometimes you get tired of it, all the same smudges on lined paper, all the same folds in all the same clothing, a girl in a dress like the ocean.

He's not there anymore, but he makes the boy shake. The boy shakes because the boy wants the fortitude of a blanket at night, the peace of a flashlight under the covers. The boy is you, because you are shaking.

The boy is a youth. He is young-old, he is hurt and burned, he is broken and put back together like feathers sealed with tar. He is a book, but he is empty now, because everything that defined him is the same as the smog against the sky.

He is the sky, while he is not the sky. He is lifting his head and watching a cloud drift across the nothingness, and he thinks, _I have nowhere to be_. And maybe that's ok, nowhere to be is just as fine a place as here is. But maybe it's not, because that little puff of idleness is reflecting no rainbows, and that grey streak is the same if it's between buildings or out in the woods or in the darkness while the monsters come.

The monsters are coming, but the boy doesn't move, because that's not his place in the world, and he knows his place because the man with cruelty like an iron glove rips the world right off its axis, and everything crumbles.

It is the boy and it is the man, and they are facing each other. The boy is shaking again, and you are shaking because you are watching the boy. You are the boy's mother, and you step between them.

This is how the story goes, and you play your part perfectly:

Pain.

xxxxxxxx

She sort of just pushed the door open. It wasn't like she meant to be rude; she just forgot momentarily that she didn't live there. Nathan was sitting on his bed, picking away at a guitar with the careful clumsiness of a new player. Izzy's mouth twitched upwards. She didn't think he had heard her come in.

"Hey," she cooed, "Have you seen my jacket? I think I left it in here, and I don't feel like going to the cafeteria without it. It's too cold and it's probably going to rain," she stated, and Nathan jumped, looking up and noticing her for the first time. She watched a blush spread across his cheeks, and he dropped the instrument as if it had stung him.

She frowned a little and padded over to him, picking up his left hand and curling it around the neck, shaking her head a little. "Don't strain so hard. The tension will make your hand slip closer to the strings. Don't strangle the poor thing," she grinned, playfully nudging him over so she could sit next to him and watch him play, occasionally fixing his hand for him. Nathan snuck a quick look at her. She had her head to the side and her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. When she heard that he had stopped playing, she jerked and looked at him, surprised. "Is anything wrong?" she asked, checking his left hand. No, his fingers were holding the chord correctly. She sent him a bemused glance.

"Your eyes," he stated, "Ocean glass and grey skies, with hair like tumbling honey," he observed, and watched as a fine blush settling across her cheek. She coughed self-consciously and shook her head, hopping off the bed. Nathan wondered what he had done wrong.

"Well," she chirped, "Bet I left that jacket in my dorm," she sang, and darted out of the door. She waited until it had closed behind her before she let out her breath, closing her eyes and listening to his music through the door. She put her hand to her forehead.

"Oh dear," she whispered, "What have I gotten myself into?"

xxxxxx

"Yep, I'd say that's a door with a body nailed to it," Tarrow stated, stroking his imaginary beard.

"It's Nico," Tommi shuddered, arms wrapped tight around his body like he was coming apart slowly, "It's Nico. It's –"

"Nico, yes, I've got that, thanks," Tarrow mused, bringing himself closer to the horror. Something was stuck inside of him, and for a moment he forgot what it was. Oh, oh yes. It was a card, wasn't it? And a nightmare. A card drawing and a nightmare, something he could never wake up from. Sometimes he liked to imagine that the cards would change and the future would be wrong. But it never was because he was still Canon's little boy and a wizard and nothing but a liar. "It looks like he's been dead at least a week."

"I…I don't…I don't know what to do," Tommi babbled, running his hand through his hair. "I kn-know that I was being reckless renting out an apartment in the town, but I didn't think…"

"On the bright side," the false wizard interrupted, "It's actually the second door in your house. If you didn't have this handy-dandy airlock, any little kid might have found the body. Why, you can't even smell it until you're a few feet away."

"_Him,_" the writer replied sharply, "Not 'it.' And don't…don't talk like that. He did so, so much for all of us, and it's our…my…fault."

Tarrow tilted his head to the side. "Well then. I suppose it's up to us to solve this?"

"_Solve?_" the boy choked out. "Who _are _you?"

Suddenly the boy in blue laughed. "Someone ready to die."

xxxxxxx

"She's not _here_," Eilsa hissed, "You said she would be here." Her headphones hung around her neck. She hadn't seen the boys come into the room, but he wasn't telling her. He didn't know why. It would be nice, he thought, if she appreciated him for a moment, taking out two larger boys with just one motion. No, he reminded himself, he had actually failed her because he had not…he hadn't.

He swallowed, but it was because he was rethinking his action. He should have killed them. He should have said something. Instead, he shrugged. "Our info was bad, then. It's not like we went all over the Earth, now, was it? The dorms aren't exactly far."

She sent him a glare. She hated stairs, and he had made her climb them, like she was some princess and he was the villain. He rolled his eyes and she kicked a chair. "Go ask him about her again."

Jacob winced. "No can do, love, no can do. Man is dead as doornail."

Eilsa looked surprised, like he had just said something that for one time in her life sounded like maybe he actually knew what he was doing, like he wasn't a failure, like he didn't make her sick.

"Well then," she huffed, "Time wasted." She turned and left, walking right past where the bodies were hidden.

Once in his life, he would have wanted to call to her, to have her spend the day with him, to be with her for the day because just for once he had spared lives, because he had given himself the gift, because he wasn't a monster for that one moment. He wanted someone to forgive him for what he was, he wanted someone to tell him that what he was doing was all right, to tell him that it was possible to love him even when he was always covered in sin and sorrow.

"Happy birthday to me," he sang softly, and wondered if he felt like crying.

xxxxxxx

He practically walked into her. She didn't seem too offended by it though, although she let out a tiny squeak that turned into a yawn. "Sorry," he murmured, "I was thinking about other things."

"Not a problem, Meeks," she grinned, and laughed at the look that crossed his face. His jaw was dropped in shock and horror. He looked like he didn't know whether to punch her or kill himself.

"Sorry, _Kratch_, but did you just shorten my name to _Meeks?_" Mika blubbered, "Do you want to _die?_"

She shrugged and looked at her nails while the response _Sometimes_ ran through her head. "You can shorten my name, if it makes you feel more manly."

"It's actually, 'manlier,' first of all, and secondly, you do _not _want me to shorten your name," he snorted. He looked offended and prideful at the same time. She wondered at that, at that high-and-mighty nature. She figured he was compensating for something, and it made her giggle. He just glared at her. He had a tendency to dole out glares. It just made her amused.

From the trees, like a ghost from the fog, Talyn popped her head out. She looked sheepish. "Mika?" she called, stepping close to him. Instinctively, he slid closer to Kratch, who just felt really uncomfortable with the change in personal space. But Mika had nice eyes, for all of his fury, and he was sometimes very sweet. All in all, she guessed she could put up with him being an awkward distance away.

"Mika," Talyn whispered, reaching out to him. "I'm so sorry about…about what I said. I didn't know you were gay. If I had known that, then everything would have been… different, I guess."

The boy in armor just stood there, opening and closing his mouth like someone had stolen his voice and given it away. Kratch snickered in the background, trying to stifle it as best as she could. Meanwhile, Will stepped out behind Talyn, coughing self-consciously. Mika lifted one gauntleted hand and pointed dangerously at him.

"_You,_" he growled darkly, his voice like splitting ink, "You are going to _die._"

"I didn't tell her," Will responded calmly, holding his hands up, "She saw the magic take place. Aint no fault of mine if a lady chooses to hide behind bushes to watch goings-on."

"I wasn't _hiding!_" Talyn half-shrieked, like he'd just stabbed her with a hot poker. She seemed to hear the tone in her voice and added hastily, "Only cowards hide," in a low, pouting voice.

"What magic?" Kratch asked, peeking her head out from behind the knight's shoulder, "What did she see? Did something happen to Meeks?"

"Don't you _dare_ tell her," Mika warned Will, before snarling, "And _don't_ call me Meeks," to Kratch, who suddenly became very involved in the clouds, looking for all the world like she had no idea what he was talking about.

"They kissed," Talyn told the pianist, "It was very sweet. I think…well, I think Meeks needs some help to come out of the closet. I know, it's a tough life that you're consigning to. But you can't expect your boyfriend to just keep quiet about it. Having secret rendezvous sessions in the woods will only make the both of you unhappy. Is it…is it because you're embarrassed?"

"Yeah,Meeks, are you embarrassed to be seen with me?" Will mock-gasped, putting one hand to his heart.

"_Yes,_" Mika growled as Talyn frowned, and after a brief pause spat, "Stop calling me that!" He flailed around a little before snatching Kratch's waist and tugging her to his side. He brushed the top of her head with a kiss. "I'm not gay, either. This is my girlfriend," he announced.

"You have a girlfriend?" the other three chorused, with different amounts of surprise. Kratch looked like she had been hit with a small car, Will looked like he found it very amusing, and Talyn almost looked hurt.

"You don't have to _pretend_," the gymnast said softly, "We're all _accepting_ here. No one is going to judge you. If you want, you don't even have to put the label on it. You can be bi, or, you know, experimenting, or open to options. Whatever makes you comfortable."

"I like experimenting," Will said absently, "But only when girls do it."

"Sorry, go back," Kratch whispered, looking dumbstruck, "What was that bit about a girlfriend?"

He turned and held her by her shoulders so he could look into her eyes. She saw them go soft again, like he understood that he was confusing her. "Hey," he murmured, "No fear. You say it too."

"No fear," she repeated, although she couldn't see what he was getting at. He smiled, that rare, delicious, white-teeth soft-lips smile, and she thought she wouldn't mind being his girlfriend at all. She figured he was just using her for the moment to prove his straightness, but she didn't really mind being used at all. She pressed herself against him, as much as the armor would let her.

"I know a girl that doesn't like those sexuality labels," Will added, "I think she just likes sex, personally, and doesn't really care where it comes from. She's kind of a slut."

"That's not nice," Talyn said sorrowfully, "Don't call me names."

"Wait, Meeks," Kratch interrupted, not seeing the shock that wrote itself onto Will's face, "Why were you kissing Will if you don't...er, bat for that team?"

"_He_ kissed _me,_" the knight seethed, "And I'm serious about that Meeks thing."

"If I call you Meeks, you can call me Krass," she replied, and Mika bent his head again, doing that staring-into-your-soul thing. She felt her heart stop.

"No," he told her quietly, "Don't let anyone do that to you. You are what you are. Stop letting other people walk all over you. No fear, remember. You promised."

It was her turn to just stare at him, but he was already looking away. Meanwhile, Will was staring at his imaginary watch. "Well," the photographer announced, "It's past _my_ bedtime, and I have been sulking _long enough._ You know if you pout too long, your face sticks like that," he informed them, "I know because I saw it happen once."

"To whom?" Talyn asked, curious, turning with him to go back into the forest. Through the trees, the other two could hear Will's reply.

"Well, my dear, that story has to begin with another one. You see, I was stuck in a scented pinecone factory when…" his voice trailed off as the two worked their way through the foliage. Mika pulled away from Kratch the instant they were out of earshot.

"Sorry about that," he muttered, scratching the back of his head, "I didn't mean to use you as a disposable girlfriend, but… And I meant what I said about everything too. I… I mean, you're in some of my classes, Kratch, and you're always letting someone else talk first, and you're always letting someone else cut in front of you, and you're always letting yourself get stepped on. And, I don't know, I think that's stupid. You're better than that."

She picked at her nails and shrugged because she didn't know what to say. Shame tore at her. She wanted to go back to pretending she was happy, so she did. She plastered a smile on her face. "And I meant what I said, too. It's ok if you call me Krass. It can be my secret code name." But she was looking down still, trying not to think about the way he'd held her to his side.

He stretched out one finger and brought her chin up, making her meet his eyes. "I'd rather call you my girlfriend," he told her, "If you'd let me."

Before she could answer, Izzy appeared, sighing. "You will not _believe_ what I have been through _today,_ Miss Kratch. Come! We have much drama to discuss," she demanded, taking her friend by the wrist.

"But-"Kratch started, but she was already being dragged away.

"You can flirt with Sir Metalclad Ironpants later. I promise he'll still be dark and brooding," she announced, "And_ I_ was promised yogurt."

Kratch tumbled forward, but she sent a look towards the boy who had metal bands around his heart. He grinned at her and mouthed, _No fear,_ and she whispered it back.

No fear, child, no fear.

xxxxxxxx

They didn't actually know where the House was, but that was the point of the mission. They had an idea, but the problem was getting the actual information. It was not a good plan, even in the best light, but they came up with it while burying a body in hard ground with nothing but rusty shovels and broken hearts.

Tarrow crossed the ground, barefoot. It felt right to have the grass under his feet and the clouds overhead. The air tasted cold. The world tasted old. His steps weren't heavy like they should be, because he wasn't in his body anymore, because sometimes that's what life is, it's denying yourself that you're human.

He was humming the snow scene from the Nutcracker. He had always loved that the best, because it was a blizzard building but no one got hurt, because there was a moment when the music broke and all that remained were twirling white tutus and falling glitter.

He had shed the blue robes and was just wearing black. It seemed right, and he hadn't been able to lie to himself in the face of the nightmare. It replayed and he knew it for what it was: just memories mixed into moments. It was just a summation of an instant.

But clear, clear in his eyes, that moment in the morning, waking up to a phone call. The seconds afterwards of a shaky hand setting out three cards. He had known better at the time, because he had only done the Tarot on himself twice, and both times had been true. He knew better and yet he had prayed the third time would free him.

But it had said what he had expected, because he'd felt it in himself since Yuki had gone missing. There are times in your life when you know nothing but one certainty, like a silver hammer against iron nails. It pounds into you. You wake up, you feel it, you go to bed, you dream it.

He was a liar.

xxxxxxx

He was a liar, but she loved him for it, although she never loved anyone other than Echo. He liked to imagine she didn't hate him absolutely, but instead let her anger show her heart's desires.

Ever since he'd been hunting the missing Ashley, he'd felt something inside of himself, and it bothered him. It was something that pounded relentlessly against his chest like heavy notes in a love song. It made him wince to think about.

He shouldn't be able to feel. He had been through too many treatments to feel anything. But it had been a long time since the treatments had done anything to him. Already he was getting two of them a day. Maybe three would free him, but it didn't seem likely. Maybe Eilsa would love him, too. Maybe he was loony and lost and loving and _dead._

He had taken off the bracelet, because it didn't seem right. He was dressed all in blue, his version of a normal teenage boy. All he could think about was the same memory, the moment of waking up on an operating table and finding out he was suddenly new, born again, release from the torment that had been his past. Now when he thought about what had happened to him when he was younger, all he knew was a blank space in his mind and a feeling like he was staring too long into a silken web.

He wished he had better music in his head, but all he had were the chants that he'd been taught over and over, the same words repeated in the same pace. They were all lies, too. They all sounded like they were this happy promise, and they all became ugly lies.

Jacob crossed the room in his thick navy blue socks, his arms behind his back. He hated standing watch in the House. It drove him insane. It was his birthday. Maybe for once, he thought, they could have given him the day off. Heaven only knew that Eilsa would have loved to, and Cherry practically dived for it every chance she got. The space was small, oppressive.

Sometimes it reminded him of a grave, dirt brown and churning with sickness. When he closed his eyes, he saw a thousand green creatures with eyes black like sin and dying for the cause that they'd been born for. He wondered why he had chosen to die for the House, but that was the point of his life anyway, to find that out. To discover fate, to break fate, to break himself on the rocks and break other people on his fists.

But all he was ended in shattered glass.

xxxxxxx

He strode into her room. She looked up, surprised, playing with a piece of string between her fingers.

"Listen," he commanded, "I mean, _listen._ Don't…don't _say_ anything. Because if you start talking, I'm going to get all nervous and end up leaving before saying what I want to say, although by the end of this I'll probably have said too much anyway," Tarrow blurted.

"O…kay?" Avalon guessed, knitting her eyebrows. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I mean, yeah, something, but that's not what I'm trying to say," he frowned, moving across from her. "I wanted to talk to you about what you know about me."

"Tarrow, you know that you don't have to talk about your past. I know it hurts you," she said softly, but he was shaking his head violently.

"No, that's not it. I mean, that's it. But I mean, it's the fact you know _everything_ and –"

"Is that the problem? Is it awkward for you now that I know your past?" She looked frightened, like he was taking something from her.

"No, of course not. My past is my past, it's not…" he trailed off and gestured like he had no idea what to say. "I wanted to…to…"

Avalon looked away. "It's ok, Tarrow, I told you so. You have a very dark past, and I don't find it necessary to poke around in it."

"That's not what –"

"I'm just saying that –"

"But I'm –" Tarrow tried, but she was blurting out words again.

"Seriously, you don't –"

Tarrow ran his hands through his hair, made a low noise in the back of his throat, and reached out and took her face in his hands. He kissed her, because maybe for once she'd be quiet.

"I just wanted to thank you. You knew what Canon did…did to me, and you never judged. You never skated around it or made it awkward. You never made it anything more than it was and you never tried to fix it. And I don't know what else to do but tell you how much that means to me. You're the closest I've ever come to actually trusting someone. So, thank you."

She just stared at him, her fingers on her lips. There was a darkness in her eyes, though, something that knew more than he did. It was intuition. It was horrible. "Don't go," she whispered suddenly, because she felt that him leaving was going to rip her apart.

"I have to," he replied, slipping his hands out of hers. "I'm just a petal in a sunflower project. Things can't always be easy, you know."

"It could be easy, though," she pressed quietly, "You could just stay here with me. And we could just, I don't know, leave."

"Where would we go?" he laughed softly, "You know as well as I do that we've got nothing but the skin on our backs."

He walked to the door and sent her a look over his shoulder. He smiled brilliantly, like a dying sun, and winked, tossing her a card. Through some divine intervention, she caught it in the air, clutching it to her chest. "And so our hero departs," he murmured, "Weighed down by the world."

The door clicked shut.

"I love you."

It was a whisper, but spoken in two voices, the same two that were just waiting to be broken.

xxxxxxx

Sometimes, Jacob liked to dream that he had been born into another life. In that dream, he was just a normal boy with normal problems and no need for hope or hatred. He was just one boy.

But then he'd met Eilsa.

Sometimes, this is all we are: a collision between two lives.

xxxxxxxx

Long ago, the House had offered Tarrow salvation. They had promised him freedom from the dreams of Canon, and yet he had chosen nightmares. Even while making that choice, he had never understood it. Part of him told him that he'd stayed out of trouble because of a girl, but most of him figured it was just his instincts saving his hide. But today he was becoming one of them, at least as close as he could get. And then he'd escape, somehow, and Tommi would get the information on the location. It was all very simple.

He almost laughed. There was a certain amount of craziness, he figured, in walking right up to where he was pretty sure the enemy's front door was and just asking for entrance. He deserved a gold star, or perhaps a nice bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers.

Hope, he thought, I must have hope. He rapped on the wood and waited, shifting from foot to foot, humming. He was still barefoot. The tan carpet felt like heather, all soft and destroyed.

A teenager poked his head out, a curious look on his face. "Hello?" he half-greeted, but it sounded like he had no idea what he was supposed to say. "Who are you?"

"Mm, I'd be Tarrow. You may call me Captain Awesome if you wish, but no one is making you," he replied smoothly. There was a certain humor in being wondrously wonk enough to just let go. The sword master didn't even have to put on the stupid drawn-out words that made him sound like a psychic. He was just Tarrow, mediator of Tremendous and Oh God.

The head disappeared for a bit, but then popped up again. The look of curiosity was gone, replaced with a cold snarl. "I have orders to kill you."

Tarrow just stared at him. "You're so _young_. You're a baby. How could you let them do this to you?"

But the boy was resolute, sliding out into the hallway and clicking the door shut behind him. "Please don't fight. I hate the fighters."

Tarrow shrugged and pulled his dual blades from the brace on his back. "Sorry, man, you should have told me that beforehand. See, you can't really bring two knives to a gunfight and not even try to use them. It's the law of physics, see." He twirled them expertly around his hands like thin silver wands. It looked deadly, he realized, and that made him laugh. As if he could actually fight.

From the boy's fingertips, two sparks and then a black blade. "I'm sorry too. I'll try not to kill you in an overly long way. Today's my birthday, you know." They circled each other, low, dangerous, figuring out the other person's weaknesses.

"Happy birthday, then. Again my apologies for ruining what plans you might have had. Mind you, I don't know that I'm going to be much of a nuisance either way. I'm not very good at this whole fighting thing," he admitted. It was one of his dark secrets, he grinned, and he was sharing it with a stranger. "If we're being honest, and stalling as I am doing, I got recruited to this school because of an accident and because of the things my master made me do."

The boy paused for an instant. "You have a master too?"

"Well. I _did,_" Tarrow shrugged. The boy was still pacing, but that curious glint was back in his eyes.

"How'd you get away?' he breathed, twirling the machete like it was a simple baton.

Tarrow had never admitted to it, but now was as good as ever. "I didn't," he whispered, "I never got away." And with that, he lunged forwards, slashing with all of his might.

There was no epic battle with wits and steel and wisdom. Jacob cut him down in a matter of a few movements, like a machine set to replay. The machete danced that pretty swirl-twirl-slash, and then Tarrow was coughing out his love onto the tan rug.

"I don't get it," Jacob mused, "What happened, then?" He wondered this while he wiped his blade in front of the boy who was bleeding out.

Tarrow laughed, a hollow sound. "Don't you know? Don't you know?" When he saw that Jacob didn't, he laughed again. He felt like he was flying, but it was empty, like a room without wind.

All he could hear in his head was noise like a slowly approaching train, and his own little litany.

I'm sorry that I could not protect you. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you. I'm sorry that I could never help you through your darkness like you helped me through mine. I'm sorry that I've failed you. I'm sorry that there's nothing left of me but a body and a splintered soul. I'm so, so sorry.

Do you know how much I love you? Do I say it? Can you tell?

Can you save me, one more time?

"My master," Tarrow whispered, his voice like static, all torn through with ruby teardrops, "Was Harvey Gillian Frost."

The train was closer, and suddenly everything felt like summertime. He closed his eyes.

Everything I do, I do it for you.

He could see her smile, but it was fading. Everything was fading.

Everything became nothing at all.

Happy birthday.

I wish you nothing but the elation of a thousand years.

x - - x

**A.N: Thank you very much for the support through my November hiatus. **

**Please think about this chapter, because it was actually very personal to me. It was also a (very) belated gift to my dear Sparks.**

**Thank you very much for continuing to read The Frost Experiment and especially to those who take the time to leave a review.**

**Take care.  
**


	20. Chapter 20

I should start by saying: I love you. I know you probably don't believe that, but I've always loved you. Even when we were fighting and you were being a total skobag. Even when you stole my clothes and ruined my makeup kits and got paint on my things, even then. There were times when I couldn't stand the sight of you, sure, but I always loved you. I still do. If you can believe that.

I know this sounds clichéd, but the reason I left is because I love you.

It was either your life or mine.

xxxxxxx

They were buried on a day that still tastes like ashes when she thinks of it, still feels like plastic chairs and a stem in her hand, still sounds like everything in the sky was crying eternal. When she thinks of it, if she thinks of it (she knows she thinks about it all the time). The watch on her wrist ticked away an infinity complex, with the whole world encompassed in the bodies of the rebellion's children, in heartbeats and eulogies.

Caen opened her eyes and everything was grey-blue, and Avalon was quiet. The rebellion couldn't have a real funeral, because according to the school, the students weren't really dead. But still they gathered in a field of heather, they still set up chairs and made coffins. There wasn't a podium to speak at, just like there weren't nearly enough places to sit. Everyone spilled onto the ground in an array of black blankets and holding each other and whispers like heartache. But it was Avalon, with emptiness in her eyes and a blue swatch of material braided into her hair, it was Avalon that stuck in Caen's mind. It was like glass shards against a blackboard, blaringly clear in acid font. Just a quiet Avalon.

The girl stood, coughing a little, her mouth a thin line, the material in her hair a constant reminder. She walked to the front of the crowd, in between the black coffins, and raised her dark eyes, staring out over the heather. And then in a voice like tumbling rain, she began to speak.

Caen would never forget what she said.

xxxxxxx

The story of Ashes went like this: a girl wakes up in the middle of the forest. It is dark, and she thinks to herself, I must get out of here. She thinks she might be dreaming, although she knows she is not. She thinks she must have walked in her sleep and she thinks she must get home, because her room is a mess and the world is scary. She is sixteen, almost seventeen, and she feels like crying.

There is a voice, in front of her, and it sounds like someone she knows. But a man appears, and she's scared because she's never seen him and she's in her thin pajamas in the middle of the woods and there's no one around to hear her scream. So she doesn't scream, not because she's not scared but because it's stuck in her throat like a nightmare, because she's so terrified that she can't move.

But he holds out his hand and says, "Don't worry," and for no reason at all, she doesn't. "It's ok," he promises her, and she knows it is, like she knows she's awake and like she knows she should be getting back home. "Come with me," he requests, and for a second, for a second, she feels every part of her body screech to get away, because she's sixteen, almost seventeen, and she knows better than to go with a black-suited man in the middle of the night. But that second is gone because he repeats, "It's ok," and it is again. So she takes his hand and he leads her, over under, over up, he leads her through the woods she grew up next to. She knows the forest, she thinks, that's why she isn't scared. But she knows she doesn't know the forest at the same time, just like she doesn't know the man or where she's going or why she isn't running away or why she knows she must get home.

He leads her to a clearing, and she thinks that she knows this place, even if she only knows for an instant. It is filled with tents and one log cabin, with men and metal and if she was not holding onto the stranger's hand, she would have been scared. But he has not let her fall, he has not let her stumble, he is all she has and she holds on. The moon is bright where they are, and she sees his bullet-proof vest and his army-issue bulk and thinks she should start backing away because she really must get home. But he takes her to the cabin, gently pulling her like he means her no harm, like nothing is going to happen. She thinks she is dreaming, that she has been dreaming all along, because that's what it feels like, like someone has taken her brain and is holding it underwater, nothing is sticking, everything just slides off like sugar.

He opens the door and nudges her inside, and then in the glare of the lights she remembers she's awake, that her mouth tastes like smoke, that she should be home, that's she's in too deep.

So she screams, and screams, and knows she is never going to see her home again.

xxxxxxx

"We all need someone to tell our story," Avalon murmured, "We all need one other voice just to mark our words alongside us. Maybe that's why I exist at all, to tell a story after someone is gone. Maybe that's all we all are, just a reflection of someone else's writing."

She paused and took a breath. "I never wanted to write a eulogy for a friend. If I could have one wish, I would never have to again. I don't even know why I did, except that I had to. I am empty. Maybe at one point the truth will hit me and I will know, just know, that I'll never see my best friend again, that a young child was killed. But not yet, because I had a eulogy to write, I had to tell people and watch their faces fall, I had to take care of his pokemon, I had to one-at-a-time go through his things until everything was divided up according to his wishes, that nothing could be found to incriminate us, even if all we are is criminals."

Avalon looked up to the sky, rubbed her arm and spoke to the dead. "You believed in the old things, in the deep magic that no one else did. But you knew that fate works out, that everything happens for a reason. I remember you telling me that when we met, like you had to explain why you liked me. I never forgot that, the moment you said that we belonged together because we didn't have the same talents as everyone else. I remember you telling me, in the dark on a Saturday, our fingers sticky with stolen popsicles, the story of how you came to be here. You made it into a whimsical façade, the moment you hired an actor, the moment the two of you had a staged battle in front of a fountain, the moment the talent scout caught your arm and asked if you wanted to be a part of something new and exciting. I didn't know about everything else, back then. It seemed like a chance trick of fate that your one time in messing with swords got you a spot in Frost. It was a happy story, and you were happy. We were happy.

"I remember sitting under our favorite trees in freshman year and guessing the number of days until it would snow. I remember that you hated snow because you thought it was the ashes from broken hearts, tumbling down a white blanket. I told you it was laughter, and you told me that if it never came, you'd be happy. I didn't pay attention to your darkness, because you and I were still just friends, not best friends, and it wasn't my place. I wonder about that, sometimes, about the moment when we just realized that we _were_ best friends.

"I don't remember when I knew. I don't, and that kills me, but I don't think you're supposed to know. You were my male half, and that was that, everyone knew it. I remember hearing it for the first time, when someone said, 'You're best friends with Tarrow, right?' and I remember pausing before agreeing. And then I slipped and said it to you, something like, 'We're best friends, it's ok,' and you blinked and told me you'd never had one of those before, but you thought I was as good as they got. I told you that you could return me to the store if you wanted to, but I couldn't guarantee a refund. You smiled but I could see you thinking. It was awhile before you told me that you thought that being my best friend was kind of an honor, since you were a talentless hack next to me.

"You liked that I never refused a Tarot reading. You'd light up because I had faith in the dark magic too, because I didn't ever outright reject your beliefs like everyone else did. I just liked how into it you would get. You would light up. You loved that you always pulled the Lovers as my present card. You thought that I was in a constant state of falling in love, and I had to agree.

"I remember skipping class with you, hiding up in our favorite tree and discussing things that didn't matter. I remember finding secret places with you for when the snow came at last. I remember that you wouldn't walk in it, because you thought you'd catch whatever shadows it held. And I remember the night falling and curling in a corner of the library with you and you told me the story of your life, slowly, cautiously, like you expected me to hate you for it."

She took a shaky breath, like she was breathing in cinders. "But I could never, ever hate you."

xxxxxxxx

The charcoal smears and Ashes spoke: The girl beast her fists against the door, but it is locked and nothing was working. She sinks to her knees, sobbing, pleading, bleating.

A hand touches her shoulder, warm and gentle. "It's ok," a voice says, but it was female and it didn't wash her brain away like everything else had. "We're not going to hurt you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you." But the girl is still crying and trying to get out. She doesn't look up.

There is a long pause, and then the voice sighs. "Perhaps we should explain."

xxxxxxxxx

"There is a boy. Most have you have never met him, because he hides in the darkness behind eyes. He is trembling with a past like frosted glass, it breaks inside of him with such sharp edges that when he breathes, he bleeds. The boy is all made of horror and terror, and yet the body he lives within is always one of light and life, one of happiness and hopefulness.

"Do you hear me, Tarrow? Can you hear me calling your darkness into the world? Can you hear me naming it? It is because I was never afraid of it, I never shook in front of it. And I should have said, just like I should have said many things, but that's not the way the world works and I never knew I'd have to write your eulogy and speak it before the body of a boy who I had met twice in my life. I think I would have liked Jason, and that hurts me more than I can say. I know I would have liked him. I know because he died like you died, fighting for the cause.

"You grew up in the claws of a man who knew of nothing but hate. You called him Canon and I called him evil. When the two of us were alone, once in a while you'd speak of it, quietly, darkly. You didn't believe in bringing back into the world what you had fought so hard to escape.

"I know you, though. I know you. I – I knew you. I knew every part of you. I knew how much you wanted to be free, and I knew how much you wanted to be a hero. You were everyone's hero, even though you don't know it. I know it. I've always known it.

"I…" her voice hitched and she laughed a little, like a broken note and a violin string, "I knew you were a hero from the first time that I met you, because you believed that you were talentless, because you believed in black magic, because you believed in me. Don't you wish we'd had more time? Don't you wish I had said all of this when you could answer? Don't you wish that you were here? I know you'd love it. I know that you would laugh a little and wonder why everyone was crying, because you thought no one should love a boy so stained by the world, no one should be happy around a liar and a cheat and a good-for-nothing. You thought I was your second chance, you said, because it showed you could make friends with someone who wasn't all that bad.

"I'll tell you what I wish for. I wish for your happiness and I wish you were here and I wish for hope. I wish for an end to war and a beginning of peace. I wish I didn't have to tell everyone about your passing and watch their smiles dissolve. I wish I didn't have the honor of being one of the last people to see you alive. I wish you were still alive. I wish I could still talk to you, just once, and hear your chuckle in my ear, watch you light up over a bunch of cards, watch your fingers dance to and fro and make the magic happen. I wish I could skip class with you and share my lunch with you and defend my pudding from your vicious claws. I wish I didn't have to go back to your empty room and see how there's no more evidence of you there. I wish I didn't have to have your favorite sweatshirt tucked under my pillow just to remember what you smelled like, because you always smelled like evergreens and ashes and woods. I wish I could find that smell elsewhere, but I can't, because it was just you. I wish that I had someone else to lean on. I wish you hadn't kissed me, and I wish you'd kissed me earlier. I wish this was someone else's funeral, and that I was just sitting there and watching someone else talk about what it meant to be friends with you, because I could never explain it.

"I wish I had all that talent you thought I did, but I don't. If I did, I'd be able to tell you what it's like to have you ripped away from me. I would tell you what happened when Tommi came home with a body in his arms, all covered in blood. It was like I'd never breathe again. It was like I was trapped in a little glass jar, beating my wings against the side until they broke.

"But I'll never get out. Everyone promises me that it's going to get easier, that one day I'll wake up and it won't hurt like it does now, it won't be the only thing I think about. But I can't. I can't. Because everything I was centered around everything you were, centered around eating cherry jam on toast, on sitting in front of the fire and telling ghost stories, on late nights and video games, on summer letters and honeysuckle, on breaking into hotel pools and skating on thin ice, on holidays with joke presents and new socks, on dancing down store aisles to the song on the radio, on impromptu movie recitements, on talking during class and getting called out for it, on everything, on this field, on your empty grave."

She stopped and stared at the place, ragged in the ground, raw, fresh, a gaping wound. She stopped as if to address it, dropping her voice to a low twirl of heartbeats. "This morning," she told the dirt, "This morning, when I woke up, my first thought was of you. Was of what happened. Was of last night and blood and holding you and crying. Was of wishing you back. And I thought, Today is the first day without him. I stood in the shower and thought, It has been one hour on the first day without him. I finished painting your coffin and thought, It has been six hours on the first day without him. And I know it will continue like this, it will continue to make time seem like a dream, it will continue to just sit there, inside of me, a monster, a darkness, your darkness.

"I know you," she said, tilting her head back to the sky, "Which is why I know that you'd hate this. You'd hate that I'm dying. You'd think it's another sign that you're worthless and pointless and nothing."

She laughed again, quietly, rough and stark white.

"You have no idea. Can't you see? Can't you see? We're all hurting because of who you were. And I... I'm not clever or the leader of a pack or a bright star or even that talented at all. But I can tell you that we miss you, each of us, and if that doesn't make you amazing, then I don't know what would."

xxxxxxx

Ashes burned as such: The voice, at first, does not say much, because she is only saying things that are meant to sooth and not to explain, are meant to comfort a poor little girl. But the girl remembers the important part, the part where everything turns orange.

"Congratulations, Ashley. You have passed our test."

xxxxxxxx

Avalon was silent for a moment, staring at the ground. She held in one hand a white rose, and absently she ran her fingers over the petals. She turned to his open casket, where his pale face was a porcelain recollection of sleep, where they had hidden his wounds under a black suit and silk tie. It was the first time she had looked at him since the start of the funeral.

"You have told me, over and over, that you're just a talentless hack. But I've seen your darkness, and I can tell you this: I think you are more talented than anyone I've ever met. You acted as if everything was fine, and you got most people to believe it. You were bright, you were happy, and you won over the death and hurt and horror inside of you. You were never anything but a good person, even after everything that had been done to you. If that wasn't a talent, then we are all just as talentless as you thought you were.

She smiled like a cracked sun, all frayed brilliance, all hurt hope. "I release you, Tarrow Arcana, from the darkness within you. I release you from Canon and from your self-hatred. I release you from everything that you have lived through. I release you in the name of the old magic, of the old wisdom, of all the angels and in the name of Arceus himself."

She pulled a battered yo-yo from her pocket and said to him, so quietly that the words barely escaped her lips, "You gave me a precious thing. It's just a trade, Tarrow, because you were always asking to borrow it and play with it anyway. It belongs to you because it always has." She slid it beside him and stared at his face for a long time, as if for a moment she had left this world and was traveling elsewhere.

She stepped back and looked to the crowd of people, all staring at her with their red-rimmed dark eyes. She cleared her throat and began the words of the old ways, the ways everyone was taught to believe in but few actually did. The words tumbled from her lips like a nursery rhyme, slowly, like that white rose tumbling from her fingers and into the grave.

It sank into darkness, ashes in the sky.

xxxxxxxx

Time doesn't pass in clocks or plans or deaths. It passes like a soft silk scarf, weaving slowly around and around and around.

It passed the stage in one of the auditoriums was filled and then emptied, was home to monologues and drastic acting scenes and a single girl with honey hair playing the violin until everyone's heart broke. It wrapped itself around a broken family of fighters and watched them cry, watched them smile sadly and sink into each other, watched them slowly learn to laugh again, watched a girl who'd cut her hair short against her head stand next to a grave and hold a card to her chest and stay silent, watched her snarl in anger and take his place in an army, ready to die. It slithered around a group of freshmen who were informed of the news slowly, cautiously, never told the whole truth, it watched as they all got just a little older, as two boys who had been close drifted apart because of a girl and then made up again, watched as that girl said goodbye to her sister and disappear for a while, watched as that girl's roommate hold everything together as everyone fell apart. Time watched deep blue bracelets woven into existence by a mysterious man in armor, clever wondrous things that made their way onto everyone's wrist who had been touched by a death. Time watched as two boys, silent and careful, slowly solved a problem that had been following them for some time. Time watched another two boys wake up in a library closet, knowing they should be dead, knowing someone had saved their life.

And time watched things heal, slowly, stitches, stones and broken bones, flowers burning to ashes, two chairs forever empty in the rebellion's little room. Time watched a girl who had been introduced to poison slowly sink into darkness, and a girl who had been introduced to darkness slowly sink into poison. Time watched a group of teachers meet in a room every third week and spread out a blueprint on a table and discuss things in hushed tones. Time watched them all, watched them struggle against the claws of a man with nothing to live for but ice.

There are two things which are inescapable: Time and the Frost School for The Exceptionally Talented.

And so it goes.

xxxxxxxx

He woke up on the floor. Tommi had not slept in his own room for a while, ever since… what had happened. He couldn't think about it, but that was ok. He had gotten used to waking up and immediately thinking of other things, because when he opened his eyes, all he knew was that his hands were covered in blood and Tarrow's wide eyes were open and dull, that everything smelled like death.

The bed above him was empty, even if it was barely morning. That made sense. Avalon was always out early, out walking to his grave and putting new flowers on it. She cared for Jason's grave too, and Tommi had heard her speaking to both of them before, just talking out into the sky. She'd made friends with some of Jason's friends, and had somehow gotten to know the boy even after he was gone.

Tommi rubbed his arm and got up, slinking past where Caen was sleeping. He would have felt bad waking her. In the three months after she had dragged Jason's body to a meadow, she had barely slept at all. She would wake in the middle of the night, screaming and pleading, begging the world not to make her do it again. Tommi had the same dreams, and it was a lot of the reason the fighter let him stay with them, although the writer supposed that a lot of it came from the fact that he wasn't exactly a threat.

It was the same dream, he thought, heading out, shoving his hands in his thick jacket, curling his body against the chill, It was the same dream every night, a body in his arms, a life in blood spatters.

The trail was getting worn, he noticed. They'd have to start a new one again. A grave wasn't the place for enemies. But he didn't change his feet, the pattern of his life pushing him forward.

Sure enough, she was standing between them, an orange-yellow flower in her hand. She was talking, but she stopped when she heard him get closer. That was just her way, and Tommi never complained. Words spoken to the dead were not meant to be overheard by the living, and besides, he knew what it was like to wish Tarrow alive again.

"It's the three-month anniversary," Avalon said suddenly. Tommi stood next to her and didn't answer. "I hate it. I hate that school just went on, life went on, no one cares. No one cares," she growled, "I come to his grave every day. No one else does. It's like…it's like… It's like he doesn't matter anymore."

Tommi gently took her hand and slipped his around it, not in a romantic way, but in a comforting one. He understood her anger, and he knew she meant nothing by it. She had been through a lot, and it had changed her. Something in her dark indigo eyes had become hard, like something had frozen deep inside of her. But that was just her grief, Tommi knew, that was just her mourning for a friend that could never be replaced.

He had not forgotten, because he could never forget. He pulled from his jacket his own present, a red cape, and laid it on the ground, stepping back and standing beside her again, letting the world crackle in silence.

"It's been sixty-one days and four hours since he left us," she whispered, the same way she called the count every day. He knew that it never left her, the sorrow. He knew that her reality was becoming shaded in grey, but sometimes her old self shone through enough that he had hope for her healing.

He pulled her away. There were things to do, and she would stay there all day if he let her. It was in her nature, although it hadn't been before, he didn't think. They walked through the woods in their quiet way, heading out to the cafeteria for breakfast. He had to make sure she still ate, because food turned to ashes in her mouth. She'd lost weight, a lot of weight, and he was worried she was going to end up in a hospital. He'd lost weight too, but on her skinny frame every pound counted.

Later that day, he brought her back to the grave, watching as the sun burned red against the horizon. They weren't alone – to Avalon's surprise, they were joined by others in black, standing near each other and whispering. They all had candles, white and burning against the oncoming blackness. The two were each handed one, and they went to stand at the front of a crowd, closest to the graves.

Suddenly, one voice started singing, something sweet and low and sad. The others joined in as the nighttime came, standing vigil over a departed friend. Just singing and quiet whispers, a sad smile and memories, open hearts and lots of hugs. The crowd grew slowly, and the light from the candles spread to follow it, until the meadow was nothing but blackness with stars of quavering light. But as thick as the darkness became, the singing never stopped, notes sweet and soft and hurting. Avalon sang too, but a song that others let her have, a quiet twirl of her own heartache, her own sorrow against the others.

It was a long night, waiting for the sun to rise. It was cold, but somehow blankets and coats were passed around. Tommi stood by Avalon the entire time, but it was not until near the morning that tears finally streaked down her face.

"What's the matter?" he asked quietly, catching her eye. But she shook her head and seemed to laugh, croaking a little.

"That jerk," she shivered, "One hundred and six days. He would be right." Tommi just stared at her, but she was smiling despite the pain on her face. She stared at the sky, humming.

Then Tommi saw. "It's snowing," he said, watching the little pieces of heartbreak laughter tumble in ashes to the ground.

She was crying, but already people were hugging her and holding her, already the candles around her made their own little sun, bright against the thickest black, the dark before the dawn.

"He hated snow," she laughed, trembling. "He hated it."

She tilted back her head and caught one on her tongue.

X-X

**A.N: This is late and short. I am very, very sorry. I have been very sick recently. My thanks to Absh, who made me laugh even though I was coughing so hard I couldn't look directly at her :)  
**

**This was a very sad chapter. I wanted you to think about what your family and friends mean to you, because you should always say the things that you think you have more time for. You should always say "I love you" and speak of how much someone means to you as often as you can. There are few worse things in life than writing a eulogy and knowing there are still things left unsaid.**

**I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas. :)  
**

**Thank you very much to my reviewers and readers. You guys pretty much are my presents under the tree :)**

**Take care.  
**


	21. Chapter 21

She knew one thing and one thing only:

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

xxxxxxx

Nathan woke up from a dream about a boat that held velvet nights and a fear of heights, too many words in his head. That's how it worked sometimes, because writers wake up reciting poems they can't remember and how many different kinds of signs there are in this universe – stop signs, peace signs and regret. Maybe the dream was just a memory of someone else, standing out on a dock and seeing nothing, nothing, like the whole world was encircled in a strand of lights and after that it just ended, not like it was supposed to but like a starless blanket, too close too close.

That nothing backdrop danced in front of his eyes, immortalized within a snatch of memory, a stretch of forcible darkness, sick in its willpower to make him crave the unknown. Emptiness, a veritable fabric of passive malevolence, undeniable, as startling as it was enticing, glorious, endless, vertigo. Furtive beneath eyelids, it had forsaken the wisdom of the world in favor of a richer sense of feast, that twist of the human heart. Everything in the end was surmised by it, and yet it defied summation. It tantalized and tormented. It was the everlasting, and it haunted him.

He stood in the shower and thought that it would not be so bad, the constant flutter of silver-costumed words, if it didn't put his head in a slow daze and make him move like nothing mattered when it was five four three minutes until first period.

Maybe all he was ended on a boat in a nothing ocean, the sea is rough even if it's not there at all, a promise made in darkness.

A knock at the door, and he brought his head up slowly, water around his head and inside too, rain patter and waves, a voice sounded out. "Nathan," sticky with sleep, "If you don't get out, you will drain the nation's lakes and ponds and then all the marine life shall die." Will was outside, and that meant it was time to move.

"I'm serious," the photographer called, "I know because I did it once."

Nathan held his left hand out. It was calloused from playing guitar. Izzy had been teaching him. The shower sounded just like a chord, perfect in its shattering cry.

Some days he was land-sick.

xxxxxxx

Trapped as they were in the effervescence of youth, they saw no sense in hiding that which they coveted so dearly. Perhaps it was a mistake on their part, but their neglect proved to draw less suspicion. To say that you do not see what is before you is to state the undeniable, the unavoidable, the human condition. Perhaps their teenager immodesty was the spawn of more brilliant things than it was of dark ones. It was on their desk, which is how she got her hands on it in the first place. All things could have been avoided otherwise, but life is made of the small mistakes and happenings of fate.

Since the disappearance of her roommate, Kratch had become filled with wanderlust, travelling from hard floor to hard floor idly, unwilling to return to a soft bed where she could still feel the quietness crawling under her skin, impervious to her whimpers [in front of her eyes, a girl covered in blood, a girl short like her hair, singing as they slaughtered her]. She liked that she lived her life carpet to carpet, hardwood to hardwood, one floor to the next like an impermanent tattoo. Thusly she had become sort of a stray, appearing in friend's rooms and curling up on their carpets, innocuous while in the way. Her pokemon followed her gingerly, as if their presence determined her comfort. Perhaps they were aware that she had lost a friend and experienced pain they had never known, and were ashamed of that. They had become muted mirror images of themselves, tranquil in their helpless desire to please.

Kratch was a frequent figure on Orson and Jarel's floor. They made her feel safe, and Orson felt still that he owed her penance. He was not one to forget a debt, and in his mind, the one he had accrued against her was impossible to repay. He treated her like a little sister, precious. Jarel had been harder to coax into friendship, not because he was cruel but because he had a darker way of seeing the world and did not trust what he did not know. But even those who are the tersest of their friends can be lured into security by the benign chatter of a peaceful girl. If nothing else, he was used to her, and becoming used to a situation is the most dangerous thing a person could do.

She was sitting on Orson's bed and hugging Ursula. The Teddiursa had grown accustomed to her new dark-haired sister, and she would mewl in delight each time the pianist showed up, tottering forward and demanding to be snuggled with. Kratch imagined Lux and Skit were not fans of this reciprocated love, but they would make no noise to prove that theory, instead curling up around her and watching her with their wide, understanding eyes. She felt like they were waiting for her to fall apart and order them to fight at the same time, a duality she knew as well as her heartbeat.

She was staring at the model they had made. A small degree bigger than average, it was an otherwise perfect replica of a pokeball. She tilted her head and stared at it. No, it wasn't completely perfect – something in the paint was off. Something in the shade, maybe, and it made her uncomfortable for no reason that she could think of. It was familiar in a way that it shouldn't have been, and yet it resonated with a disparaging note in her heart. She blinked and the feeling of eeriness disappeared.

"Wassat?" she asked, stretching over Ursula and taking it into her hand. It was heavier than she had expected it to be, and she bounced it carefully in her palm.

"A pokeball, Miss," Orson yawned. He was still wearing his Teddiursa pajamas, his hair messy from sleep. He had the first block of the day free, which was a never-ending source of Kratch's jealousy. "Although, darling, I'll admit I'm a little worried if you can't tell that by looking at it."

Kratch loved his smooth voice. He had calmed her down from nightmares with that voice, and had talked her into dating Mika. He had never told her just how selfless that action was, giving her up. He knew it would be the best for her. Mika would never let anything hurt her, although she was scared to death of the little Umbreon that trailed beside the knight. Every time she set eyes on Zulu, everyone could see her face go pale. She never explained it, and she worked hard to get over it, but Mika would gently remove the mass of black fur from her presence. It was that, the fact that Mika put Kratch's sense of security over Zulu's potential happiness that made Orson believe that the knight was a good enough choice.

Jarel was not as easily persuaded, as per usual. It wasn't out of stubbornness or even selfish desires. He had simply never met the boy, and he hated fighting things he couldn't see. It wasn't as if he pushed the issue, but it was obviously a point of contention for him. Every time Kratch would speak of her boyfriend, his lips would thin out and he would make a dangerous noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl.

Jarel was currently pawing through his backpack, his eyebrows knitted together. He hated it when things were out of place, but it resulted in him having what the upperclassmen called a "freshman backpack." Whenever they saw a specimen of this creature they had named, they would smile a little in a friendly and obnoxious way.

"No," Kratch answered Orson slowly, "It looks like one. But, I mean, why…would you have…?" She peered at it harder as she trailed off. The color bothered her again.

"Science," he replied automatically, like a bullet hole on repeat. A phonograph of phonetics. "We're supposed to be able to understand the complex mechanisms that are encased inside of that there ball and other such things, I would imagine."

She stared at him, watching him pad around the room in a preparatory manner. Something in his manner reminded her of an undusted shelf in the back of her home, a jar of brown ink sitting pretty in the sunlight, sultry and partnered by a curved calligraphy pen, rusting from disuse.

"Are… Are you serious right now?" she breathed. She squeezed Ursula maybe a little too tightly. The Teddiursa chirped plaintively, and Kratch had to relax her ashen hold.

"Why, completely, my dark-haired darling," he purred, handing Jarel a folder. Evidently that had been the magic item hiding from the meticulous boy, as he nodded his thanks and slid it into his bag, shuffling things around to make it fit.

"Orson," she coughed, "You've never lied to be before." She hadn't meant to say it; it had just tumbled from her mouth like a plastic promise, venomous in its pastel purity.

"I'm not, sweetie. You should hurry up, baby girl, if you want to be early." His assurance made her skin crawl.

"Orson," she growled, low, hurt, "I'm _in_ your science class. There was no assignment like that."

There was a long pause filled with a growing sense of being abandoned. Kratch had felt alone before, but she forgot how raw it felt, how much it sat inside of her chest and swelled uncomfortably. Orson and Jarel shared a look, and she just felt lonelier. The fact the boys were so close had never bothered her before. Suddenly an icy jealousy wore her, coating her in crimson frost. She'd never be as close to them as they were to each other. They could lie to her all they wanted.

"I did think you would know I meant Modern Technology. I do think I specified Modern Tech, as a matter of fact. You been sleeping enough?" Orson laughed. It was so fake that it hurt worse than the loneliness. Jarel shouldered the bag and jerked his head to the door. They had to leave soon if they wanted to be on time.

"He did say Modern Tech," the darker boy promised, "I was there. He's right about sleeping more. It's not healthy that you don't sleep in a bed. That's not right." He took her gently by the hand as if she was a sick child, pulling her towards the door. "We'll be late if we don't leave now," he told her calmly, as if this was all just a pleasant misunderstanding.

She stared at the southerner as she was led away, watching to see if there would be some salvation there, willing him to look at her. A glance, just to prove that he was still Orson in some way.

He wouldn't meet her eyes.

xxxxxxx

Some days it was the bad neighborhood that he thought about, the one with the cars parked on the lawn and chain link fences and empty lots filled with dying grass and bad paint, enough of not enough to give everyone a run for their money. Some days he knew the language and why the cheap fast food place had a gate out in front, why sometimes it was better to get out of the car and face the anger, why the trees were cut down to make room for terracotta roofs. Some days he was a number on the bricks, broken headlights, summer heat inside of buildings, tarmac and turnpikes, plastic chairs on balconies, sleeping bodies lined against a wall, an expensive car next to rust, a little glitter with bad grass, no class, flightless, desperate fingers, a bad rap, too much time to waste, clarity, no body's game, landmarks and bullet holes, silicone lips, beauty schools, broken, bad, ugly, you know it because you've been there, hey kid can you come over here, blue skies and neon lights. Sometimes he thinks about it because he grew up there, where flip-flops replaced photo-ops and love was paper or plastic, because sometimes there is no wrong side to the tracks, there's just the tracks and home, it was the same.

He remembered where he came from, before he was scouted, because it was important and you should never forget. He came from plastic spoons and no room, and no, he was never ashamed. He couldn't be, you can't change your stripes even when you change where your paws go. Those things made him stronger, and that was that.

He was sitting in second period and thinking about cities, specifically the city he grew up in. It made everything seem easier, and besides, they were just images in a mind frame.

Tap, tap, tap. His pen bounced against his notebook, history, doodles and his own declaration of independence.

"Sage," voice tired but kind, same voice it had been for four months now, female. He looked up, the pen still staccato on the paper.

"Y-e-s?" he drawled in a high, keening voice, testing it around his mouth. He knew what she was going to say, so he was playing.

"Stop it with the pen please," Izzy, all in a huff, maybe. He thought it was funny. Popular girl, pet peeve. He shouldn't be anything but a distraction. Besides, he knew what they were learning about anyway – it was history, everyone died in the end. Her sunset hair – blondepinkcoral (none of the above, all of the above) – twirled effortlessly around her face, and right then it was being tugged in annoyance. A bad habit, the hair-tug, but Sage thought it was amusing in the same was small children trying to spell were amusing. Izzy didn't actually admit to being in the popular group, which made Sage think she was probably victim to some self-image issues. Who knew anyway.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he purred, tap tap tap. She stared at him, wishing idly that he was still the quiet guy that he'd been at the start of school. She had worked to pull him out of his shell, but that was starting to look like a grievous error.

"And I don't know if you're going to live to see tomorrow," Izzy half-growled. An idle threat, same one she had been making for a while now. Patterns.

"Oh, _this_ pen thing!" he exclaimed, as if he had suddenly discovered the tap tap tap in his ears. "It's not me," he declared, "Else I would stop." He was thinking about low planes and fire trucks and ambulances always filled with children, about cars and no stars and highway bridges and history groups with popular girls and ashes in a smokestack and the same conversation every day for the past forever.

"It's you," she sighed, "I can see you doing it." She had her packet of questions in her violinist fingers, calloused but pretty. She was a nail-biter though. The class around them murmured with the pretense of doing work, but they were teenagers told to talk it out in their groups, none of them were working.

"Why, it _is_ me!" he gasped, startled like it was a recognition he'd never had. "I must be possessed!"

"By what?" she yawned, even though the unscripted part was coming up, the bit where he had artistic license and the others at the table were free to join in as they so saw fit. Sage liked to think that they waited for it, hungry.

"I don't know," he keen-purred in that same plastic tone, "Maybe it's a custard that has developed higher brain functions and is using its questionable texture to take over my motor functions. Let me address the panel. Panel, what do you surmise?" He turned and stared at the others, expectant, game-show-host smiling.

"Well," Will said slowly, twirling the papers and his gum, "I suppose it could be a legion of undead crispy-and-delicious meringues, bent on a drug-free regime of egg-whites. Since today's theme is food, I guess."

"A veritable theory, Will," still Sage the game show host, "Mika?"

"Ketchup. Personally, I always thought it looked a little bit too much like blood. I got tyranny for the first one. Do you think that counts?"

"I said dictatorship, so yeah," Will answered, "But I'm not sure about condiments. I just don't see the harm they could do. What, are they going to squirt awkwardly onto your clothes or something? That's what they invented washing machines for. Ketchup's kryptonite. Number three is taxes, right?"

"I think so," the knight mulled, biting his thumbnail and staring at this writing, "But I'm serious about ketchup." He scribbled down another answer while continuing, "It's too tart. Plus it hides other flavors. Evil, I'm telling you."

"No," Izzy said suddenly, "It's plush throw rugs with their insane amount of comfort. Just when you think you're safe, their soft fibers rise up and entangle you and make you sleepy. Then the drowsiness sets in as it slowly creeps into your throat and takes over your vocal chords and one day it will be everywhere, in every home in tacky colors of green and blue and bright pink, next to ugly artwork in three dimensions, and the rugs just control everything, from the weather to clothing and you can never escape because it knows things, it knows things that you would never expect. Don't think you could tile over it, because you'll hear it calling you in the middle of the night, calling you and demanding that you listen to its plushy ways. Always, always, always. Always."

The others just stared at her and her clenched hands and crazed look.

"Wow," Sage said, now accented in Spanish, "_La señora es una locura._"

"I think she's probably had some past carpet trauma," Will nodded conspiratorially to Mika, "Possibly in childhood."

"Possible tapestry affliction," Mika sniffed, "Certain curtain connections."

Izzy just stared at her paper and covered her mouth with one hand, her blue eyes wide. She hadn't actually meant to speak at all. "I don't know," she muttered defensively, "They just make me inexplicably sleepy."

"Well, _that's_ weird," Sage said, back to his deep passive normal voice, a roll of fresh ink, "I mean, even a custard kind of makes sense."

"I…I guess… I can see it working," Will tried, mostly because he was nice and Izzy was hot, "Sometimes… I mean, I can imagine sitting on the ground and falling asleep. I used to live in a cave, you know. I feel that a throw rug… might be… tacky? Horribly comfortable? You know, I think I was talking to Grace about this sort of thing and -"

"Shut up," she interrupted darkly, "You're not helping. You're ugly when you're swimming around hopelessly for a quick response."

"Wow, honey, don't hold back," Sage whistled, "Let him have it."

"Well, if you would just _stop it with the pen_," she hissed, "Maybe I could _think._"

The tapping stopped. The three boys stared at the girl who had suddenly gone into beast mode.

She sighed and ran her hand through her hair. "Sorry," she breathed, "Sorry, Will. I'm just… I'm tired. Just tired. It's been awhile since I've gotten a good night's sleep. We… we have to work. What did you get for eight?"

Then followed an awkward silence before Mika threw out the answer for the eighth question and then it was slow chatter and history and Sage not helping at all and cities in minds. The same.

xxxxxxx

She had learned a vague hatred of holiday music. In a few days it was Twine, the celebration of Mew Two's creation, for those that believed the second Mew was the brother and other half of the original one. The familiar notes had gone from nostalgic to disturbing in the course of the month. She would growl a little under her breath whenever they started to play.

She was thinking about grey skies and palm trees, warm wind in her hair, landfills and empty houses waiting for demolition, standing outside on the sidewalk with her clothing in her hands, watching her life leave. A suitcase, black and charcoal wheels. No tears and no fear, except it was all inside.

She was shuffling around mahjong tiles in a lazy representation of activity, bored, cloud images connecting. She yawned, because if nothing else, she knew what boredom felt like, her white teeth shining in the yellow light.

Echo was by her, curled up, his orange tail around his body. He twitched his ears in his sleep and she wondered again if he could hear in his dreams. She hoped he could, although hope was one of those things that made her think that the world was unjust. Treatments had taken everything from her, but still the hope in her chest, ugly, painful. It was like hoping for an impossible set of words, it was terrifying, it was beating her winds against a glass jar and suffocating.

She had no past. Sometimes she liked to imagine herself one, because then she might be whole in some way, complete, as if a white picket fence could stich her back together. She liked to think that she had been through a happy childhood, but she knew she couldn't have been. She had chosen to be what she was, she knew that much. No one was ever forced into the House. There would be too many treatments required if a person was set against it. Everyone knew that hypnotism was fake, and besides, everything in life was only made of choices, one after another, dangerous. She knew, mostly, that whatever had made her decide to leave her past behind had been something awful. But in dreams she had the yellow house and normal parents, a large backyard and a normal school. Sometimes maybe that was enough.

No.

She was drinking pineapple soda, which she loved. It didn't actually taste like pineapple, and that was the best part, the half-lie, the promise and the letdown. It was a sweet concoction, and something told her that it was from her past. She didn't know why that sort of thing was one of the only things left, but it was, as much as the wind in her hair and talking to someone she could never really remember, white felt and sticky fingers.

Eilsa had always liked sweet things. They made her feel safe, although they made a part of her brain hurt like it was turning its wheels and nothing was working. A cotton candy cloud.

Maybe that was why she put up with Jacob, although that was probably wrong. She just liked sweet things and even though he was wild and deconstructing slowly, he was sweet. Sometimes right after he had killed someone, he'd talk too much, but that was just adrenaline. He hated it, and she knew it, even if she didn't tell him that. She had some tact at least.

Sparks had killed more people than she did, she figured. He and Feather were kind of a fall-back for the House now. It was funny because she could remember when it was just Echo and her, jobs every day, constant motion. But when Jacob had shown up, he'd taken over most of her work. She didn't mind. She liked having time to herself, and besides, when she wanted to she could stretch her muscles by taking any one of Jacob's missions. The House treated her better than him anyway, like she was the ace up their sleeve. They only sent her out when things were getting serious.

She remembered when he had appeared in her life, the dark circles of a new House member fresh under his eyes, the bandages and healing scars marking his body. He looked excited, bouncy, happy. He followed her with such admiration it had made her sick. He'd _felt_ too much, and it made her jealous, maybe, if she could still feel jealous. By the time the treatments got to him, she'd set boundaries beyond what was really required.

There was a certain hierarchy in the House, almost tangible sometimes. She and Jacob were well above the newborns, but only a few steps above the spies. They had fewer rules than most of the others, because they operated just a bit outside of anything the rules said. But always, always, they were under the girls. Lily especially. Everyone knew she was the master's favorite, because she was _special. _

Today Eilsa felt like being a tease, a little bit. Sometimes she could see that look in his eye, like he could remember what it was like to be in love with her. Sometimes she was still a girl, and Jacob was, she had to admit, pretty hot, all in all.

She pushed her tiles away into a messy pile with one hand, picking up her soda with the other. She padded to a room where Sparks was sitting at a desk. The sun was shifting through his hair, and he was staring at what she thought were probably the steps to one of his orders. He looked lonely for some reason, although she couldn't say.

"Hey," she smiled, so soft, gentle, "Ever have pineapple soda?" She slid next to him, offering, head to the side, eyes wide and caring.

He sent her a startled look and took the cup from her, sipping it cautiously. She liked the look of surprise on his face – it never tasted the way that you would expect it to. She pulled the straw back to her pink lips.

"Mm," she laughed, "Indirect kiss." But she was standing again, moving, gliding. All lean muscle. He was watching, but he wasn't talking. He'd been quiet the past few months, but it hadn't really concerned her or anything. She peered out the window, staring at the campus woods. Something took flight from the leaves, dark against the midday bright blue.

She looked again to the black-haired boy and realized that she was wrong, it wasn't plans or orders he was staring at, but instead papers that had thick black lines through them. Censor bars. He wasn't watching her anymore, but flipping between pages, biting his lip, a pen in his hand paused on a notebook. She noted idly that he was left-handed, and couldn't think why she hadn't noticed that before.

He glanced up, but it wasn't at her again, it was at the room. He was checking to ensure the door was shut, she could tell. She knew that move because she made it often. One of the House benefits was soundproof walls and no cameras. Evidence was one of those things that the House couldn't risk.

"Who gives us orders?" he asked, strong, old, different than she could remember. Tired, maybe. Knowing. A little dead. A lot.

She shrugged and faced the window again. She just got the orders and followed them, a fist for hire, a death in her fingers. An accident-arranger.

"I thought it was probably the Dean, I don't know. I don't really think about it. But he's whack and all that, so, I mean. Plus, I mean, the House is the school, right? Or something." She sipped the pineapple soda and stood in front of him as he drifted his fingers [blood, he was standing there with blood making fingerprints, crying, coughing, telling her that he'd killed a man out of mercy, telling her torture wasn't covered by treatments, and then she kissed him] over the papers.

He was silent. Today he was old again, even if he had just turned seventeen. Well, maybe seventeen. The thing about losing your past meant that you lost your sense of age as well. Some days Eilsa thought she was younger than they said she was, and some days she was not.

Jacob looked older, which was more than she could say. She knew she looked young, fourteen when they said she was eighteen. His shoulders were broadening, and there was a certain sense in his face of what he would look like when he became an adult. Time touched all things, she guessed, even House members. For a fleeting second, Eilsa wondered if they were old.

"No," his voice like a steel dagger, smooth and cold, "I thought that too at first. Everything in these papers seemed to say that. But the more I looked, the less it made sense. It looks like they were edited to appear that way. It's too clean, like it's only the Dean that's the master, and that's it. It's black and white, no more questions. But," he paused and flipped back a few pages, sliding a few across the table to her, "I've been figuring it out. I think… and I'm pretty sure about it… but it looks like the _House_ is ordering the _Dean_, and not the other way around."

She trailed her fingers over the black lined paper, one hand still holding her soda. She sipped it and shrugged again. "So?" she drawled. Orders were orders, no matter who they came from. And besides, the House controlled everything, why shouldn't it control the Dean? The House stood on bodies and bags and bad memories. No, no memories at all, blankness where there should be white noise. Ashes, they all rose from ashes. Coughing and taking it into their lungs, orders, and no, she loved this place that she called home. She loved it so much.

"So," Jacob, still quiet-calm and oh so loving [deadly, torturous, blood sinner], so sweet to her because they were friends after these four [if it was four, sometimes it was seven, sometimes it was none] years, "If the House controls the Dean…?"

"…Yes?" She didn't see where he was going.

"Then who controls the House?"

xxxxxxx

She was painting her fingernails silver-blue, her tongue peeking out of her mouth. There was a puzzle beside her, half-assembled. She had braided her hair back neatly, but strands were starting to escape. She shook her hand and smiled at her roommate.

"Calm down, it looks fine," she promised, "Stop trying so hard. Everything looks better when you're not actually trying."

Izzy bit her lip and stared at the painting she was working on. Music, she could do. But her art homework wasn't turning out exactly fantastic. Sometimes it sucked having an artist as a best friend: it was painfully obvious that Izzy didn't exactly have natural talent. She'd sort of procrastinated making it, and now she was worried it wasn't going to be dry in time.

Grace had too much makeup on at the moment. The circles under her eyes still shone through, though. She hadn't slept in the past months. Just as she had appeared from the meeting with Ashley, she'd been told Tarrow was dead. She couldn't contact her sister and her surrogate father was gone. Everyone she loved was always leaving. It had been rough on everyone.

She'd broken a promise, and she knew it. She'd stolen the puzzle in front of her, and that wasn't the only thing. She just needed a little control.

"I just…" Izzy sighed, "I just feel like it's not expressive. I don't… I don't know if I even have anything _to_ express. I'm all…" she gestured like she was holding a ball of twine, "Mixed up."

The brunette looked up and squinted a little at her friend's work. She cough-laughed, the sort of laugh that was unexpected, as if she hadn't meant for it to escape. It was brittle, but it was something. It was a breath in a dead girl. "Do you want a tip?"

Izzy stared at her work. It was a half-finished clown. Even she didn't know what it meant. She swung her face to the other girl and nodded soberly, pouting a little. It just wasn't working.

"Start paintings like you start fires: furthest away from you first," the thief sang happily, running the nail polish over her other hand. Izzy dismissed the fire comment. Grace was just weird. But, the blonde mused, the artist in the room probably knew what she was talking about. She sighed and stared at her white background. Things were about to get hard.

A little while later, Grace stood, dusting off her hands and staring at her finished puzzle. She liked things that kept her mind at bay. "You know," she murmured, "Everything would be so easy if every person put their little pieces together. That's a puzzle for you: it's not done until all the holes are filled."

"Mm," Izzy agreed, but she wasn't really listening, "And that's why you start at the edges and work your way in. So the hole gets smaller."

"So it does," Grace whispered. She was talking about other things, though. Tarrow still burned empty in her mind. It was a pointless death. She was guilty, and she knew it. She wasn't sure how, but something told her that she could have stopped it. No, she couldn't have. She had been told that so many times that it made her sick to think about. "I'm going out to see a friend," she announced, clearing her throat. "Don't worry, I'll take Tabbot and Fina. Be back in an hour. Love you."

"Wait," Izzy called, suddenly inexplicably afraid, "It's practically night. Who are you seeing?" Something made her heart pound waiting for the answer. It felt like terror, and she hated it. Every part of her rejected the idea that…that what? And then she knew: that Grace was going out to see one of the boys. No, though, there was no way Izzy liked Will or Nathan or anyone at all. Least of all Tommi, with his grey hair and laughter and sudden compliments from the blue and tortured past.

"Oh. Charlotte. You don't know her," the brunette replied, pausing in the doorway. She was cast in darkness and light, her two opposing forces flanking her. "She's in my… I think it's World Lit class, but it might be Civics. I can't actually tell those classes apart, so," she grinned impishly, "But she has answers. She always has the answers I need. I do love me some Charlotte." She paused and ducked her head, her hair swinging before her face. "And I might stop by… you know. Avalon needs someone to keep her company. I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised, and then she was gone.

"You know something?" Izzy said to her clown, "I think I hate Grace."

xxxxxxx

You think you could stand darkness because you have been bathed in it all your life, a little smoke creature scuttling through the ashes. But the darkness you covet is nothing besides the darkness inside of eyes and you've never been trapped in a room where there are no windows. You think you could stand it because you don't know the absolute quality of blackness, that it eats at you.

Time, time, slime through your fingers. There is no way to tell time in darkness. It all appears the same. Maybe this blackness belonged to yesterday and maybe it is the same blackness you have been breathing for the past week, who knows, seconds are only a figment of your imagination, love is only a light switch, there is no love there is no light it would be better if you could just sleep. Everything would be so much better, but they never let you, they never let you rest. You don't sleep but you do, you don't know anymore because the blackness all looks the same and the monsters in your dreams share your jail cell.

He had been awake for a while now, but it didn't matter again. Something made the darkness move, but it was his eyes playing tricks on him, vicious. That's what he told himself. He was flexing his fingers when the bark sounded from outside the metal walls. He had been exploring once, to see what infinity they had dropped him in. The memories, like everything else, made him flinch.

He began reciting words but they made no sense. He was just doing it because they kept him company, little green bursts where there was no colors. The bark sounded again, closer. They were coming again, and he didn't mind because after they came, he could go back to sleep, if it was sleep.

The door clanged and he blinked in the light. She always came at night, but there was a less complete blackness outside, if there was an outside, if he wasn't trapped in a dream again. She looked dangerous in the light, her dark silhouette standing in the doorway. He had met her before, but that was because she was so nice and she checked on him so often, if it was often, if there was such a thing as often where there was no such thing as time. She would come and poke and prod him with sharp things and questions, and he never knew which part was harder. Sometimes (but maybe it was rarely and maybe it was always) she would just feed him and leave.

She was holding a bowl. He smiled through his broken teeth, crazy maybe, but slave to food. He was still mumbling. Maybe they were names and maybe they were the last prayers of a broken man.

She was frowning, he thought, but she was always frowning. She hated the way he threw himself on the ground, crawling towards the half-liquid mash. He didn't care. She looked too old to be pretty anyway.

"Look at you," her voice, gravel, "Look at what you've become. You used to be a force to content with. Now all you do is sit and mutter and fall at your food. Did you think we could not break you? Diamond, but I think we have," she laughed, turning and leaving him to the bleak metal endless room, just like she always did, the door clanging shut. Another bark sounded, in the distance, and then all was silent.

Slowly, he sat up, licking his fingers clean. He ate neatly and then set the bowl aside. He eased his back to the floor and started his sit-ups, same as he had done every day in this endless dream.

He was alone, but he spoke. He did it to remember.

"My name is Ike Rend. I opened a door and solved a mystery."

xxxxxxx

She liked to repeat things she had heard on late-night evangelistic television. Something about their depravity made her think that they were hopelessly desirable, the crux of her effervescent perdition, and her enervating salvation. She liked to think that it made her modern and cultural, as if stolen phrases could become her in the way that a necklace might make her look young again. The words were no complement to her thinning hair, ashen in their immorality.

She tied her greying hair back with a satin band and painted black lines under her eyes. She started the meeting of the teacher's union with a frown and a strut, right up to the podium.

"My name, as you know, is Kaylee Norad," she declared in her glass-high voice. She liked to say her name as much as possible, and she liked to hear it more. It was as fame could be captured in the four syllables that made her recognizable. "I think it's high time we did something about…" she trailed off and set her eyes on Spirit Ikusa. Her voice died in her throat and was replaced by another.

"The fact that this school has not gone green," a calm, cool voice finished for her; "It is a shame. It is as if the person writing our lives was colorblind and had a particular hatred of all things green."

It was Justin Montgomery, playing with a yo-yo lazily in the back of the class. He liked that the string and the wheel could turn ad infinitum, and he loved the sound it made as it fell through the air. Justin, his dark eyes almost dangerous, watched the world around him. _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_ and _Slaughter-House Five _were pressed together under his free arm, both much abused and therefore much loved.

Kaylee stared at him, and with a particular bleakness, she realized that she could fall in love with him at that moment, if she wasn't careful. He was so gentle and cruel at the same time, and he had saved her. She cleared her throat, but it was in such a girlish manner that it sounded weak and sickly. "Yes. We must think foremost of the future. I, Kaylee Norad, stand for helping the environment." She grinned like a wilting flower, all promise and failure.

Spirit returned the grin, but it was deadly. "I do not believe that we were gathered for such reasons, but I suppose that fear turns us all tactful," she stated, but it was so cold that Kaylee's whitened teeth were covered by faltering lips.

"I'm sure," Justin yawned, "That none of us has any idea what you are talking about. I like going green. Do you hate the world or something?" The yo-yo in his hand dipped up and down, up and down.

"She's talking about the fact that Spirit _sucks,_" Cam Blake spat suddenly from the background. "Stop dancing around that."

"Is she allowed to say 'suck'? Isn't that technically a profanity?" Kaylee interjected worriedly, her voice shaking terribly, a rustle of feathers.

"I don't know," Justin drawled, "Since no one interrupted dramatically before she finished the word, I bet it's probably ok."

Ikusa was laughing, but it was at Cam. "Well, thank you," she purred, "For at least being honest."

"You need to learn to be quiet," Mako Wolff growled at Cam, putting one hand on the back of Spirit's chair. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought we were talking about the fact that Spirit sucks," Richard Lenard babbled happily, "That's what Miss Blake said. She likes sunflower seeds. We should listen to her."

"Or the fact that she's a straight-up traitor to us all," Grain said to him agreeably, tilting his head to one side. "Personally, I think we're both a little too old for this kid stuff."

"She's no traitor," Wolff spat, standing to meet the accusation, "No more than the rest of us."

"Except for you," Justin shrugged, "I mean, you actually poisoned a student. I think she's actually_ less _traitorous than you are."

Wolff sat down hard, darkness settling into his eyes. "It was an accident," he muttered, but it was halfhearted.

"I think that the problem lies inside of childish rumors," Spirit stated in her calm voice, "Because no one will directly ask me about the accusations."

"You're right," Richard Lenard said to Grain, his eyes dark, "We're way too old."

"Oldy-pants," Grain agreed, his yellow eyes on the ceiling, "Although you're four years dustier."

"Luckily I think there's actually a vaccination for death now. It's called life," Lenard announced joyfully, "What a funny name for a thing."

"Fine then," Blake growled, her muscles rippling under her coach shirt, "Did you betray us the way it looks like you did?"

"Yes," Justin smiled, "Were you a total witch? I would add the 'b' you know, but then someone would cut in dramatically, and I hate being interrupted. It's really magical actually, watch. You, Spirit Ikusa, are a really wonderful bit-"

"The thing is," Grain said jovially, "Fifty-six only seems old when you're that old. And also when you're not. It's amazing! Perspective is everything!"

"I might be," the accused shrugged, "So it goes. But in regards to my alleged breach of loyalty… It is the most untrue thing I have ever heard. I would never, _never_ be the cause of the death of a student."

"Sure," Cam sneered, "You say that now. Wolff said that too."

"_Accident,_" Wolff growled, and Nikkei Finetivus silenced him with a look. The two teachers were not rivals, but every part of Wolff's body told him to watch out for the beautiful man.

"_She was poisoned,_" Nikkei hissed, speaking in his haunting voice, a frozen lake, ashes. The room fell quiet at it. "Please. I do not engage in this war, but I demand that you all show respect for Mimi's perils. She is not just a pawn in a betrayal but a victim as well. We are teachers first, so our duty is to the students. When referring to the incident, do remember a person other than Wolff was hurt."

The room was silent for a moment before Ikusa, as frigid as ever, spoke. "I don't know how the reports that I was involved in the recent death occurred. I never leaked information of the resistance, nor will I ever. That's final."

The room broke out into the mass of conversations again, but a small, shrill voice was talking just quiet enough to silence the others.

"It was me," Kaylee whispered, pale and shaking, "I am the one that killed Jason. He is dead because of me."

xxxxxxx

The next day found Caen still following her orders from the Sunflower Project. She had volunteered herself at the reception desk in the bottom floor of the Dean's building. She sat in the middle of a gaping, empty, gold-tawny room, separated from the world by a large mahogany desk. Everything felt clean inside. At first, she had half expected the air itself to taste like evil. She thought she'd be listening in on exciting, dramatic phone calls, or overhearing half-finished sentences that would suddenly blow the mystery wide open. Instead, she found herself sitting and tapping her bright red fingernails against the smooth surface, nothing to do but wait for someone to come in. The only benefit she could find was that the desk offered a view of all people who entered the building. Other than that, it might as well have been a very expensive jail cell.

She yawned and leaned her elbows on the top of the desk. It was a touch screen, technically, embedded in the wood in such a perfect manner that there were no visible seams. She had been fascinated with it at first, scared to use it. The first time she had to pick up the phone, she'd found out that it meant all conversations were over speakerphone, and recorded. After that it became easy to disrespect, a pricy excuse for a mechanical demon, a listening device.

She idly picked at her teeth, wondering how Avalon was doing. Jason and Tarrow had become too real to the girl. The circles under her eyes were becoming dangerous. Tommi did everything he could to help, Caen knew that, but sometimes his everything just wasn't enough.

Suddenly the door opened, and Caen sat upright, startled. A tall thin girl with long black hair strode in, wheeling a suitcase behind her, her high heel boots clicking against the floor. She crossed the wide tiles with a bright smile on her face so confident that for some reason Caen was unsettled. The newcomer marched right up to the desk and winked one of her honey eyes. "Hey!" she sang, voice pretty, "I just transferred here. Well. Yeah, I guess it's a transfer. They told me to go to the office? Are you the office?"

Caen scrambled to get things ready. It was the first movement she had seen in a while – she was desperate to accommodate the new girl. She heaved transfer papers out of one of the desk's drawers, scuttling around for a pen. "Well, then, welcome to the Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented. If you'll just get to signing these papers, we can have you on your way to your room shortly. Would you like a tour of the campus?" Caen chirped. She'd gotten good at sounding happy after Jason and Tarrow had died. She playacted joyful every day for the sake of Avalon.

The girl smiled and blushed. She pushed her hair behind her ear, the bracelet on her wrist jingling. She looked somewhere between lean and scrawny, like she had been stretched into her height. "Oh," she said in her sweet voice, "Oh no. I've actually been here. Sorry. I mean, I was here when I was younger. I really liked it, but I had this friend…they said some stuff to me that scared me. She was all into this mystic idea that we were all doomed or something, and I don't know, I listened to her. I spent awhile…well, you know, away. But I'm back now." She blushed harder as if she realized that she had been babbling.

Caen slowed the paper flow. She wondered what could possibly make someone come back to Frost, but then she knew. If you were never aware of the darkness under the soil, then the castle made of mud was still a glorious place to be. The rebel wondered if she should give a warning, but she knew she couldn't. She promised herself that she'd memorize the girl's room number and see to it that she was helped out. It was just a small thing.

"Well," Caen smiled, peering at the screen that separated them, "There are several rooms that are open. Were you thinking about any place in particular?"

"My old room would be just fine, if that's possible. My roommate and I have a ton of catching up to do," she laughed, rubbing her left shoulder.

"Alright then. Your name please?" Caen's fingernails clicked against the touch keyboard. The fighter thought that she had to look like the perfect secretary: peppy, bright, helpful. Maybe she would be promoted, and then she could actually help out her comrades.

"_Es muss sein,"_ the girl murmured, so quietly Caen almost didn't hear her, "_Einmal ist keinmal, ja?"_ She paused and shifted her suitcase and smiled like a spring fever.

"My name is Yuki. Yuki Koori."

xxxxxxxx

The glass was too thick. All she saw was her own thin little body.

She wondered where she was, and then she remembered.

xxxxxxxx

At lunch Izzy slipped back to her room, loving the way that Tommi made an excuse to join her. They were sitting on her bed, and her heart was racing.

"I hope Grace doesn't come in," she whispered. "The neighbors will talk."

"What's wrong with Grace?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "I think she's pretty ok."

Izzy pulled a tight smile. "Nothing," she promised sweetly, "It was a joke." But lately the patient blonde was fed up with the way the world seemed to revolve around the brunette. The girl had been through terrible things, and that meant she had more of a reason to complain and be all dark and mysterious and tortured or whatever. Grace was so windowpane perfect, and Izzy wished people would just _shut up_ about her already. "Why… Why did you come here?" she breathed, changing the subject, redirecting it back to the bed and her smile. She picked up a book and played with it, just to give the illusion of nonchalance.

"What if I told you…what if I told you it was possible to make life?" Tommi said slowly, fiddling with his hands. Izzy smiled rakishly at his question, tossing her hair. She could handle flirting. He didn't need to be so nervous about it.

"I'd say that I'm a little bit young to be pregnant, don't you?" Izzy grinned, shifting herself so part of her leg was touching his. She pretended to be too busy flipping through her book to notice.

"Not like that," he smiled. She looked up. His voice quivered. It was not normal. "What if I told you… that an army was being made? Not…not a normal army. All of them will be barely a day old when they…when they move out or whatever."

Izzy made a face, pulling her head back in disbelief. She could see the Dean being a little off his rocker, yeah, but an evil-army-creating madman? Not exactly likely. But Tommi's eyes burned with something. She knew that something because she'd felt it before. It was desperation. She looked down as the pause between them stretched like leather. Finally she whispered, "Ok. Ok, let's say I believe you. Let's say the Dean is some freaky kid from space and is planning on taking over the world. Tell me exactly how one would go about this," she murmured, feeling the sarcasm on her tongue. She watched it sear into Tommi's honest eyes, but the secret he was holding was evidentially too important.

"It starts," he stated, all tawny-eyed honesty, "With you."

xxxxxxx

Felix and Thompson were arguing again, but it was back to their loving words and not their heated ones. The magician watched his sister fall asleep next to him, her head on the desk, buried in her crossed arms. She was everywhere these days, and he liked to think it was her way of checking up on him.

Thompson had gotten worse, much worse. The disease and the medicine were starting to show on his body. He was scary-skinny, and the blackness under his eyes made him look gaunt and impossible. The once-attractive boy was there somewhere, under the surface, but it was lost when he moved and the sharp edges of his bones shone through his yellow skin.

"That's not what I'm saying," he was informing his roommate, his slim fingers picking apart a tangerine, "I'm saying that brain control is possible, but not through hypnosis."

"Because hypnosis is like the loser of all losers," Spiral mumbled, bleary from her sleepiness.

"Hypnosis," Felix said, sending her a disparaging look, "Has been proven to not work if the person is unwilling."

"No, mate, I agree. Trust me. But mind control _has_ been proven. It's simple brainwashing. I could do it to you in a matter of days, if I really wanted to," he nodded and sucked on a slice of the orange fruit. It was weird to see him eat, although Felix couldn't think why.

"I don't see how anyone could fall for brainwashing. Worse than hypnosis, in my opinion. I mean, they say, 'jump,' and you just say no. It doesn't matter how many times they say 'jump,' just don't do it. Solved," he yawned. His golden eyes were rimmed in red. Even sociopaths can get colds. It made his voice scratchy and his bones hurt, but he wasn't complaining. He wasn't a little girl or anything – he could handle a wittle bitty cold, even if it did suck and make his throat feel swollen and full of razors. It also made him short-tempered, he had to admit. There was just less patience in his mind when every movement was full of his sore body's protests.

"But it's not _like_ that," Thompson grinned. Here was something that he knew. "Brainwashing isn't saying a command enough times to make you follow it. It's the act of making you think of the command on your own. Brainwashing is as easy as anything. If I gave you the same sandwich every day at the same time, one day you'll start craving it around that time. That's conditioning, but it's also brainwashing. The way you know it is successful is when the victim believes that their sandwich craving situation has stemmed from their own wants and needs, and not because you've made them into your puppets. Everyone thinks, oh, I'm too smart or I'd be too scared to fall for all of that. But it's not fear, always. Fear is not the greatest motivator, love is. You love the sandwich I'm shoving down your gullet, even if you don't mean to. The worst thing about humanity is that we get used to things, and then we love them. It could be a tar sandwich and by the end of six months, you'd salivate at the sight of a freshly laid highway. If that's not successful brainwashing, I don't know what is."

"Monologue," Spiral complained, "Blah blah blah," but she was smiling. She said she liked it when Thompson was excited about something. It was such a rare situation these days. Seeing Tarrow so close to his death had done something to Thompson. Something had clicked in the psychologist about his own mortality, and he'd been waxing darkness for a while now. Thompson had always been a little bipolar, but lately his mood-swings were violent and tragic.

"Which is why," Thompson added, talking over Spiral, "Which is why we're all stuck up a creek."

"Do the British have the idiom, 'up a creek without a paddle,' or does it exist with different words?" Felix wondered, stroking his five o'clock shadow. Thompson sent him a look and growled a little in frustration. "I'm saying," the magician drawled, "We're all controlled. Just not through brainwashing." Felix stated, brushing his sister's hair off his arm. He sniffled and started searching for a tissue. His ears felt like someone had poured fluid into them and then shaken him hard.

Thompson looked down and played with his fingers, making the nails match up. He then ran his fingers over his thumb. It was the start of the macular degeneration test, something he had picked up muscle memory of and set to doing idly. He shrugged one skinny shoulder and bit his lip, watching the teacher pace. "What if I told you that was all in the Silent Hour?"

"Silent Hour?" Spiral murmured, "What's the Sil-"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Felix shrugged. He sighted a tissue box, but on closer examination, it proved to be empty. Felix thought he'd never felt so let down in his entire life.

"There exists a moment at Frost where all students and faculty fall asleep. It occurs precisely at the hour when the moon is at its zenith. It does not matter what you are doing at the time, it does not matter where you are. You will fall asleep and awake later without realizing you even closed your eyes. It is as if an entire hour has been erased from your life. At that precise moment, she sings. We don't know what's in her voice that does it, but it puts you to sleep. You've heard her before, giving announcements. Except those are pre-recorded, and when she speaks for real, it does something to your head. The Silent Hour starts with her song, and then the chants. It rewires you. We're not sure how, but you wake up and you forget things: a stab in the stomach, your roommate's past. She tells you to do things, and it's like a spell. You're being programmed in your sleep, like long-term conditioning. But we don't know exactly what she says, because in order to remain awake, you must have earplugs in. But we know it's important."

"That can't be. Is that what Tommi said he told Izzy earlier?" Felix snapped, "This impossibility? Do you think she's going to magically know what to do? Do you think she's going to handle it well? I mean, I'm handling it well, I think, but…"

"No," Thompson replied, his voice soft, "You're not. You never have." Then he whistled, low and jarring, and finished by snapping his fingers. A silence spread through the classroom.

"No," the magician announced suddenly, talking over the student's chatter, "Freud was the most wrong psychologist."

xxxxxxx

Carmen was a teacher's assistant in Creative Writing, although it wasn't technically under the realm of her talent. She liked to read what people wrote, and when she'd taken the class, she'd really liked the teacher. She loved the psychology behind literature, and if someone would let her, she'd wax lyrical on the human mind's representation of itself.

"The thing is, if you want to learn how to lie, you read. It's brilliant. Writers are the best liars of all time," she grinned. She was walking two students back to their dorms, making sure that they were actually getting the project that they said they were, and not just slacking off.

"You know what I don't get?" Tobi said, although it wasn't really related, "I don't get why nerds in movies always live with their moms. They're smarter than we are, you'd think they'd get good jobs. That's probably a lie in some way, the whole duality thing."

Davion nodded nonchalantly, his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. He looked less ridiculous than usual, because Tobi had stepped in and informed the model that he looked like a renegade disco dancer. Carmen liked the two boys a lot, the dark-eyed silent one and the dreamer. Ever since Patches had left her, she'd been so alone. So alone. Sometimes when she thought of it, it felt like a slowly tightening chord around her, like she could fight for forever, and she'd never be free.

"Not necessarily," Carmen laughed, "I've seen movies that have nerds that get super rich."

Tobi clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes to her. "_Please_ tell me you're not talking about '17 Again.' I will die, Carmen."

"No!" she cried defensively. He sent her a look and she blushed. "Alright, yes. But it wasn't that bad! Don't judge me!"

"Next you'll tell me that 'Secret Life of the American Teenager' is your favorite show and you think that all ABC Family moments are perfectly written," he scoffed, tossing his hair.

"Not _all _of them are so bad. Some are pretty good," she defended herself, grinning. Tobi gripped his chest as if he'd been shot, groaning.

"Oh Miss Carmen. The things you do to me," he gasped, grimacing.

"Personally," Davion said in his melancholy voice, "I don't think all of those things are legal."

Carmen sent the model a startled glance, but Tobi was laughing. Carmen was the assistant coach for the swim team, so she and Davion were on pretty good terms, but the only time he opened up and said things that might be considered inappropriate was around Tobi. The two were best friends and everyone knew it, but the part that Carmen liked the most was that their friendship was mostly unwitting.

Davion opened the door to the dorms and motioned for the girl to go first, always the gentleman. She thanked him and ducked inside, watching as order dissolved when the boys got into a mini battle over who would be the next one inside. Their quick friendly wrestle resulted in her laugher and their tumble to the floor.

"Alright, you guys go and get the project. I'll be there in a second, I'm just going to go get my bio binder really quick. Behave," she chuckled, setting up the stairs at a jog. She heard their banter all the way up to the third level.

By the time she reached her room, she was panting. She brushed the hair from her face, smiling. Those boys always lit up her day in some way. She snatched the binder and put it into her arms, shaking her head.

"Carmen." A voice, smooth, glassy. It was delicious and wonderful, dark and full of mischief, a slow dissolving sweet poison, sugar. She knew who it was, because she'd imagined that voice every day for four years.

She didn't turn. She faced the window and put the binder down on her bed.

"Oh," she whispered. "So you've come?"

"All things," he replied, "End."

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back as if she was bathing in the sun. "And so it goes," she murmured.

"I've come to collect."

"And so you have."

She did not scream, but extended her hands towards the window, gently, a dancer's movement, her palms open and up, one last flight, white and red petals dripping from her skin, falling from her fingertips like snow.

Inside of her, slowly, the chord twisted and she smiled.

X-X

**A.N: I know, this is late. :( I am sorry. But it does use every character at least once, I think. Although I bet I left out someone and then I will feel bad. So sorry, potential character owner. **

**There was action/drama/intrigue, so...? I hope you liked it and I hope you had a good Christmas and I wish you luck in your New Year.  
**

**Thank you to those who review. This one is for you, pretty much. It always is. And my secret readers who leave no trace. I love you too, you know :)**

**Alright then, you know when. Twenty-two is coming soon. Thanks again for your patience. :)**

**Take care.  
**


	22. Chapter 22

It was a silver sail in the light, and he had been startled by it, so smooth and impassible, as if this was all just a boat ride on a moonlit night. But it wasn't sweet as all of that: the gleam of the blade promised nothing but disaster. Sometimes when he blinked he could still see it wink at him in the hands of a man who had snarled and moved and then there had been nothing.

He stared at his hand now, flexing it a little. It wasn't good to think about what happened next, but images only provoke other images, and he knew the next shattering clarity instantly: lights and sirens in the streets. He liked that part because the city had looked just like it was laughing, red-blue_, I finally caught you._ And he'd gasped with joy too, because it was funny, because everything was wonderful through that flimsy oxygen mask, because the city had never spoken before but it sure knew what it was talking about. _You caught me, you caught me,_ he had laughed, and let the ring slip from his broken fingers.

He could still hear its soft ping in his ears as it hit the tarmac, so quiet in the chaos.

That was a long time ago.

xxxxxxx

"Don't you lie to me," Caen growled, feeling like her normal self for an instant. Her fingers paused on the smooth surface. She had known Yuki, and this thin-limbed grinner was nothing of the girl who had left Frost for good. "You're not Yuki."

The girl gasped and covered her mouth with those tan fingers. "_Bitte,_ I misunderstood the question." She grimaced and tapped her head, looking for the entire world like an apologetic princess, all dressed up in her little summer dress. Caen took a moment and decided that the girl was a liar but had a pretty good understanding of fashion, all in all. The orange-pink-yellow burst of color was actually not completely hideous. But still, liar.

"You misunderstood me asking… your name…?" Caen drawled sarcastically, raising her eyebrow in suspicion. Her fingers were still frozen on the _{Enter Name} _button. She had dropped all pretense of being a happy little thing. She was Caen Marx, which in the fighter's book meant that she didn't suffer fools easily.

The girl tapped her head again and smiled in wonderful brilliance. Caen wondered if the grin was going to split her face in two. Actually, the fighter thought, the two girls could be friends if the newcomer wasn't a blatant liar. "I'm so sorry! I thought you were going to ask me something else, and then I got all confused… I don't know…" she trailed off in her velvet voice and looked so saddened that for an instant, Caen forgave her.

"And what exactly did you think I was going to ask you?" Caen sighed, folding her hands and leaning forwards. The girl bit her thumb as the bangles on her wrist jangled. Something about them went from being happy to being annoying. Caen assumed it was the sheer force of _lie._

"Who my last roommate was," she sighed, running her hand through her hair. "Yuki Koori and I were roommates for all of six minutes before I got the news that I had to change schools. I mean…" she sighed again before flashing that set of white straightness. She pulled herself up to her full height and flipped her hair. She was all confidence again, and she stuck out one of her hands to shake.

"My name is Lantana," she grinned, blinking those long eyelashes, "_Aber man wusste dass_. And I'm _so _glad to be back."

Her teeth against the light suddenly looked a color of yellow that belonged to those who were horribly sick. Instinctively Caen recoiled.

The girl was rotting from the inside out. Suddenly the smile looked like a stitched replication of sorrow.

Caen could not stop the thought that she had shaken hands with death.

xxxxxxx

Will was humming and nodding his head a little to the beat. He was on his stomach, staring at a book. So far, the words refused to be intelligible, no matter how many times he read the same lines. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped a little, but he had to rip out his headphones before he heard the voice of his attacker.

She laughed and shook her head just a little. "I came to get you. Dinner's ready in the cafeteria. I think its mangoes today." She paused and glanced at his headphones. "What are listening to so loudly?"

"Grace," he yawned, sitting back and trying to look nonchalant, "I jumped because the music got really loud all of a sudden, not because you scared me. Reflexes like a professional reflex maniac, I'm telling you," he announced, sticking a piece of paper into the book to hold his page. "And by the way, I'm listening to The Lonely Island, but I doubt I would be able to say most of the song title. I must keep things cool for the kiddies, you know."

She giggled and tugged his sleeve. "Come on," she breathed, "I have to tell you something on our way to mangoes."

"Is it that you've become a backup dancer for Justin Bieber?" he asked suspiciously, standing up. He had misjudged how close she was to his bed: suddenly he had her right against him. It would be so easy to –

"No," she groaned, sticking out her tongue. "You know something, though, you're taller than I thought you were."

He looked down to the top of her head. She was playing with the dark blue bracelet that all friends of Tarrow had. Hers had come unknotted, and a frown briefly crossed her face as she wrestled with it.

"Here," he breathed, "Let me handle that." He reached for it, but with a sudden fierceness, she tore it from him, a snarl on her face.

"_No_," she spat, wrenching her arm away from him, "Don't you _touch_ it." She turned on her heel and strode to the door, pausing as she turned the handle. He hadn't moved, his face still frozen in shock. She sighed and leaned her head against the wood. "I'm… I'm sorry. I just have been really stressed lately, and I don't know, I just wish that… I had my daddy back." Will didn't say anything. He was still trying to figure out if his nose was still there, because he was pretty sure she had just spat fire. She looked over her shoulder and gave him a frail smile. "Come on, mangoes. And I still need to talk to you about that thing."

And then she was gone.

xxxxxxxx

Once he had known a woman who had bushy red hair and crooked teeth with eyes like a sky parade. She wore clunky shoes and torn pantyhose, but when she talked she made the world sound whole again, complete. He had never been one for poetry, but with each passing day of meeting her, he had waxed lyrical on her charm, her grace, her wit. She had driven him crazy.

There is no such thing as love, he knew now. There was no justice and there was no use complaining about that: that was just the world, like it or not. Maybe that was hopelessness, he didn't know.

He was wrapping a present. Carmen had left them alone the day before, but they figured that she had other teacher-assistant things to deal with. No one was worried. The school was perfectly safe, after all, Davion smiled, tying the bow. So much less dangerous than the place he'd been picked up from, like a little bundle of fur snatched from a villain.

Tomorrow was the eve of Twine, so they all had the week off. He personally loved Twine, with all its bright colors and twinkling lights. No one ever complained that they weren't religious and that Twine was affecting their atheism either, because Twine wasn't really about that. Twine was more about people. Twine was about rising from the ashes.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down, Davion thought, sliding the box under his bed, before padding out into the hallway.

Someone who had yet to be identified had decorated the entire school. Everywhere the silver ribbons and white flowers customary to Twine were glittering in the sunshine. Davion thought that it was probably a legion of elves. It was impossible one person had pulled together the winter scene: dancing candles, clear glass baubles, the traditional branches of ash and holly over every doorway. It was magical. He smiled, because it was hard not to, and besides, there was no school.

He flicked on the weather channel – snow incumbent. Someone laughed behind him. "It's always that way," she said, brushing her hair back from her eyes, "Snow on Twine. Never a green Twine up here."

He swiveled and saw the girl that made his heart hurt, more out of sympathy than anything else. It wasn't his place to heal her, of course, but he did the best he could. Instantly he was up on his feet, grabbing her hand and leading her to the couch, fluttering around and tucking her into a spare blanket.

"Calm down, Davion, I'm fine," she murmured, but the dark circles under her eyes spoke of something else. Her hair was getting longer, but it still had the messy chop to it that came from cutting one's own hair, standing over a sink basin and sobbing. She had never regretted it.

He shoved the clicker into her hands and sat down beside her, wrapping his arms around her body, glaring defensively towards anyone that came too close. He felt her chuckle. Of course, of course, what was he thinking? He was just a baby boy, a nothing, a beaten husk outside a city apartment, sobbing and letting a ring drop. He pulled away from Avalon, hanging his head in shame.

"No," she gasped a little, "I didn't mean to laugh at you. I think you're adorable. I love that you hug me to keep me warm. Please continue," she smiled, and he slowly snaked his arms around her again, cautiously, carefully, waiting for it all to be a trick.

She snuggled against him and flipped the channel. She grinned wider and turned the volume up. "I _love_ this show! 'Survive Me' is legit, my life," she sang. He stared at her. He had no idea what she was talking about, and with a quick glance at him, she knew it. "You've never heard of 'Survive Me?' It is only, what, the most famous show ever?"

His dark eyes clouded with guilt at that, and she watched as his teeth sank into his lip. She patted his head. He reminded her nothing so much as a little brother. "It's not a problem. Pretty much, it's this guy who goes out into the woods and survives stuff. Everyone loves it because he's actually a silent robot philosopher," she nodded. "Who likes to go nude," she added thoughtfully, watching as the man on screen took a bit of a fairly poisonous plant.

Davion felt his jaw drop, just a little. The man should have been dead, but instead was running around naked like nothing mattered. "_Now that,_" the garlic voice was saying, "_Is a real good high._" Davion laughed because Avalon was laughing, and it had been a long time since Avalon laughed at anything. He couldn't think that she was getting better – he knew that she was just becoming more adept at hiding how much it hurt. He knew because he'd done it before.

Once he'd fallen in love with one of his teachers.

But that was a long time ago.

xxxxxxx

Kratch had hidden her presents in her room, which mostly just made sense because no one went in there anymore. She froze when she saw the black suitcase open on Yuki's bed. Someone was singing in the shower, someone with one of those voices that are so pretty they make your skin crawl.

Kratch lunged for the door, shouldering it open. She skittered inside to meet the startled face of a girl who looked nothing like Yuki. The girl peered around the curtain with curiosity and laugher, like the whole thing was just a clever mix-up.

"Oh, hello," the girl grinned, "I'm Lantana. I'm your new roommate. I'd love to get acquainted, but mostly I'm just naked," she announced happily.

The pianist wouldn't move. Something had clicked in her brain and then fried the rest of her thoughts. "I'm… I'm Kratch," she stuttered, and then woodenly tottered from the room. She sunk onto her unused bed and stared at her hands.

She had known for a long time that Yuki would one day be replaced.

She hadn't expected she'd feel so alone.

xxxxxxx

She had no answers for all of his questions. Obviously, she thought to herself, obviously. Because she didn't think about the same things as he did. She just consumed sweet food and tilted her head to the side.

She carried the last box back to her room. It was much lighter now, but in a few day's she'd cart it out again.

Jacob was waiting for her, leaning against the wall and half-glaring. "I don't see why you do that every year," he huffed, "It's stupid. You hate Twine."

"No, I hate the _music_," she replied, sticking her tongue out a little as she eased the box down, "I like the holiday."

"But it's still stupid," he shrugged, "You just stick up decorations and leave. Is it a joke to you or something?"

She sighed and rubbed one of her shoulders. They hurt again, and that meant she was getting out of shape. Once the whole thing had just been a challenge. Now it was a challenge that made her sore in the morning. "Jacob," she said slowly, "Do you remember when I kissed you?"

He stared at her with a look that meant _yes_ in every language. Sometimes it was his favorite memory and sometimes it was the worst.

"Sometimes," she whispered, "I like to do things that remind me I could be normal. That I'm not Rose or Bluebell or – Arceus _forbid_ – Lily, not yet. That I was whole at one point. To remind me I'm human."

"But Eilsa," he said into the silence, "You're not. None of us are."

"I know,"

xxxxxxx

She had looked like a sunset, which meant she looked like the light dying. No – she looked like light, but that was way back when.

Grace handed him some cocoa. He hadn't moved from his spot on the couch, waiting diligently for Avalon to return from taking a shower. The brunette smiled like the summer wind and flipped her hair over one shoulder.

"Is everything set?" she asked. He frowned and watched the marshmallows melt. He wished she hadn't asked him.

He nodded and dipped his tongue into the liquid. It was good, made with real milk, not with water. Grace was good at making him feel ok sometimes, because the way she looked at him demanded nothing. Once she'd been with Nathan and said something that sounded like, _I like him but he has nothing to steal_, which made him think he was probably doing something wrong again. She was nice, and it was pretty obvious she loved someone else. He knew who, too. All she asked was a favor, just a favor. Right?

She giggled and clapped her hands, bouncing on her heels. "Good! I was worried you would have some trouble, but I told you it would be easy if you just didn't think about it too much."

He lifted one side of his mouth in a smile. It hadn't been hard, she was right. He just had to avoid thinking about it, but the more he tried not to think of something, the more he thought of the moment that destroyed him.

"Izzy," she grinned through those sharp teeth, "Won't know what hit her."

xxxxxxx

"They're planning something," he growled to himself, rubbing the five o'clock shadow on his chin. "I know it. I can feel it. The Still Hour is getting longer and longer."

Tommi had grown up. A lot. He looked like he could kill someone or save their life and never feel a thing. Telling Izzy hadn't gone well. She hadn't believed him. He'd had to mess with her, play it off as a joke. Rewire her like they were rewiring Felix {no, no, don't think of that, just because he's empty doesn't make him oh-so-perfect for a nice little soldier boy}.

And then he knew.

It was starting tonight.

xxxxxxx

"Woah," Will said, rubbing his bare stomach, "I can actually feel muscles under my skin." He had pulled his shirt up to his neck and was lounging on his back on the bed, his knees bent. His constant fighting classes were changing his body.

Nathan sent him a look and continued to put on clothing. Will felt pretty ignored.

"Hey," he grinned, "It's important to me. Abs abs abby-abby ab abs," he sang, patting his skin. It was the eve of Twine, and the school had a dance in the cafeteria. All the girls were freaking out about it. Will mostly wanted some coffee.

"You," Nathan laughed, "Are weird." He was putting on the tux boys were expected to wear. One thing about being a boy: you never worry that someone else is wearing your dress. Nathan titled his head to the side and fumbled with his tie. The tie thing was an issue, though. "Ugh," he muttered, "I'd rather be a girl," he growled, flinging the stupid thing away from him.

"You would not," someone said suddenly, and they both turned to look.

"_Dang_, girl," Will whistled. She threw her purse at him. It was Izzy, smiling brilliantly despite her annoyance. Her hair was done up in golden waves, her flowing pink dress a cotton candy miracle. She looked hot, pretty much, Will thought, but he was wondering about someone else.

"Yo-y-y-mm uh. Y-y-y-ou lo-mm," Nathan mumble-stuttered. He blushed. He had blushed maybe twice in his life. He stared at the tie around his neck. Suddenly the silver thing looked like less of a challenge. He tried to meet her eye, but it was like staring directly at the sun. "You. Uh. L-l-l-look. Uh. Um. You look really, uh, really n-n-nice, Izzy."

She grinned wider and ducked her head in thanks. She looked up and with a rueful glance held out one hand for the purse Will was staring at. He had heard it was an extension of a girl's soul. If he touched it, would she die?

She didn't die, but she did look mildly peeved that he was taking so long. She put one hand on her hip. Today she was Izzy again, and Will liked that. So far, he'd been attacked by the female gender a little bit too much with him. He figured it was his hair. They were all just so jealous. "Thank you, Nathan, but trust me, you don't want to be a girl."

He tugged on the strip of cloth strangling him. "Girls don't have ties," he replied a little sulkily, a lot laughter. She always made him feel happy. He had less words in his head today, but that was good. Words made him seem dark and made his motion slow because he was watching them play. He'd written a story, and it felt good, like someone had put stars into his blood.

She sighed and strutted on her pretty black heels over to him, flipping the tie into a perfect knot while replying, "You don't have _half_ the things we worry about on your mind. And all girls know how to tie these things. It's in the Code."

"Personally," Will called, sliding off the bed and pulling his tux out from the dresser, "If I was a girl, I wouldn't worry about _anything._"

"Bra," Izzy grinned. He froze and then shrugged, petting his chest.

"_Done_. Or I would just use duct tape." He looked up like he expected an award for his cleverness, but she was staring at him open-mouthed.

"Um, _ow,_" a new voice said. Will's head jerked around by instinct, lightning-quick. Izzy saw and Nathan watched her bite one of her pretty cheeks. He thought it was an awful waste.

Grace had pulled her dark hair into a side braid, letting it trail to her midriff. She was wearing a tight black cocktail dress with a silver sash. Will was staring at the large white flower in her hair – a dyed lantana. She grinned at the room and took a little spin around herself. "How do I look?"

"Wonderful," Nathan said dutifully, while Will tried to figure out if he was awake or not. He was repeatedly slapping himself, which just made her smile brighter, which made him slap himself harder. It was a vicious, vicious circle.

Izzy was still close enough to the writer that he heard her mutter, "_Slutty_," under her breath, but then her face split with a grin and she skipped over to her best friend, linking arms with her. Nathan stared at the two laughing faces and rethought his previous comment. Girls had it much, much harder.

xxxxxxx

The music was one heart beat – thump thump thump. Everywhere there was motion, everywhere there was shouting and lights flashing. Rhyme was the D.J. and no one contested it. He'd pulled together something amazing. It never stopped.

Davion was one of those against the bitterly cold windows, staring at the mass of people.

What if, he thought, what if you could take a moment and let it leave you forever?

Someone tapped him on his shoulder. He turned, but he knew who it was before it happened – Tobi, always, a smile. This time accompanied by a girl who might have been drunk. But then, pretty much everyone was. Evidentially alcohol was not impossible to smuggle in, even at Frost. Teenagers, Davion thought, were pretty clever when they had reason to be. They could probably a serious force to contend with if they ever got their act together. But then, no one really wanted to.

"This," Tobi grinned, "Is Charlotte. She would bloody well say hello, but she doesn't know where her nose is at the moment, so."

"And why are you talking in a British accent?" Davion laughed, shaking hands with the bubbly girl who was pawing idly at her face.

"Because it's the eve of Twine, and if I don't, many of my ancestors will be _ashamed," _he replied indignantly, his free had to his chest.

"You're not British," Davion called after him, but Charlotte {_the harlot,_ he thought suddenly, and for some reason thought of music} was already leading him out to the dance floor.

Once he'd fallen in love too. It had been exactly the way it was supposed to be. She was everything. She changed everything. And for two years it had been a rose-colored glass and he decided to buy a ring and take a chance. She wasn't so old, no, he promised himself, fifteen years was nothing in the face of love.

A boyfriend. She had a boyfriend, and it wasn't him. He was just a little child she was toying with, and when the boyfriend saw the little child toy, the boyfriend did not hold back.

There were many bones broken that night, but only one muscle. Heart, it turns out, mends with nothing but endless feathers and self-doubt.

The ring, clattering to the tarmac.

"_Forgive me,_" a voice said in his ear, and he tilted his head. "_But how would you like to let everything go?"_

What if, he thought, what if it was Just. That. Easy?

xxxxxxx

Lily looked up. The others were around her, staring at her ivory eyes.

She grinned.

"Darlings," she sang, "It begins."

xxxxxxx

Wires. Gold liquid.

Moon rise.

Three.

Two.

One.

Ze-

X-X

**A.N: I am very very very sorry this is late ): It was a gift for my Absh {Whimsical Acumen}, since I have been meaning to write Davion's story for quite some time now. However, I am very sick and the storm took out our server, so this chapter was quite the struggle, and I hope it's not too awful for you.**

**Thank you to all my readers and reviewers. Love love love you. Thanks especially to my Hiro and others who check up on me and take care of me while I'm so sick like this :) {Hiro, I would marry you if I didn't already}  
**

**Twenty three soon. Hope you liked this one. It's called back-story. I just heard of it :P**

**Take care.  
**


	23. Chapter 23

The glass shattered like the stars: glittering, spinning, alight with wonder and electricity. It was glorious, suspended in one moment as thick white smoke bit through the room, a single black figure against the darkness. It was perfect, a knight and his beast, an explosion and a dance room.

And then the screaming started.

xxxxxxx

"Are you sure, Lily?" Bluebell whispered, hers the only velvet voice willing to speak up. Cherry was frowning, and looking down while stirring some batter, wishing she was anywhere else. She didn't belong on this floor; she belonged in the kitchen where it was warm enough to sing. Colorado was leaning against the wall, trying not to breathe too raggedly. Her pretty white-blue-lavender dress had the marks of bloodstains, but then, no, darling, it's not nice to stare at someone else's weakness. She was getting old, if that was possible. Colorado panted roughly and tried not to make a big deal about it. It was only dying, after all.

Lily today was Water Lily, but she was also Last-Day-Alive Lily. No, that wasn't right. Just Water Lily. Bell sat on her knees before the blind girl, her own blue eyes trying to make out what was happening to her sister. Lily grinned that wide-split assurance that she loved so much and nodded. "Of course, my pretty Bell. Of course. Don't you hear the moon-time sparkle?"

Bell just stared at Lily-who-could-hear-the-world-whisper and tried not to cry. Cherry frowned deeper. Cherry, pretty and pink, was making dessert. Their world was ending. Solution: cupcakes. She bit her lip, but her too-sharp teeth snatched the skin and ripped it apart. She didn't say anything, but moved the bowl so that her blood would drip elsewhere. Such long fingernails she had, such wonderful artifacts of destruction. Such thin skin she had. So willing to just fall apart.

"I heard Rose and Susan playing again. Pretty little Black-Eyed Susan," Lily whispered, her pink lips smiling, "Oh my twitchy witchy girl," she sang, and Bell sat back, staring at the tan ceiling over their heads. Sometimes she wished she could be free, but where would the fun be in that?

"It's getting cold," Cherry said through that new-stained mouth. What a fun curse she had: her teeth too sharp for any mouth. So funny, so funny. Let's make a cook who can never eat. "The Silent Hour is coming." She spoke and little puffs of condensation rose from her lips, so perfect and white. The air should have been stained red, but stay in the House long enough and you know enough of blood to know better.

Colorado was coughing again, rasping in that thick way she had. When Colorado bled, everyone could hear it. She didn't mean to, no, no, of course not. No one means to die. She clenched her teeth together and grimaced through it, pulling her body in to stifle the wracking noise. Lily-who-had-died-many-times didn't turn but instead stuck out her tongue, stretching her neck upwards.

"It's snowing," she smiled, staring towards the sky none of them would ever see, "It tastes just like ashes."

xxxxxxx

Ice snorted and pranced a little, her charcoal hooves pacing on the ground and leaving slick burn marks. From her back, a brazen figure frowned and ducked his head, pulling the great creature into the room where spectators were stampeding, startled into movement like a flock of feathers rustled into action: pointless.

"Be not afraid," he called, and then grinned, flipping his grey hair, "Unless you happen to enjoy country music. And then I think we should all be afraid of _you_." At this point, he would have swung daringly off the Rapidash and taken the microphone from Rhyme, but he had never actually ridden a pokemon before, and the dismount left a little to be desired. He had borrowed Ice from Torrie after she'd heard his plan. He shivered as he remembered that conversation: the girl had not been gentle on her threats. If he returned Ice in any way damaged, he was going to end up regretting it for the rest of his life. She'd sent Tempest along too, a little bolt of yellow fur to clear the path of the great beast. He suspected Tempest probably had orders to terminate his life if Ice got hurt in any way. He was actually pretty positive of it.

Rhyme held out the microphone, one eyebrow arched. "You know," the small boy grinned, "When you said you were going to show up, I kind of expected you to use the front door." Rhyme had dyed his usually red hair a bleach blonde for the dance, and it made his black eyes glitter. He'd changed a lot since Jason had left. He still smiled and acted occasionally annoying, but he'd instated a sort of control over his whole being. Now he was just a sinner without a saint. It had marked him raw. He'd gotten taller, too, as if grief alone could stretch someone out. He actually looked pretty normal. And hot, Tommi thought suddenly, but then he had to open his mouth to speak.

"Sorry about the entrance. I told Tempest to get us in here, and he kind of took that as an opportunity to test out his new electric power or something. I don't know," he grimaced, watching the Jolteon skitter around in happy circles, playing between the hooves of Ice as if the potential to be crushed or burned meant nothing at all. Tommi looked up, expecting someone to be listening. Mostly it was still confused chatter and aimless wanderings. A lot of girls had taken off their high heels and were brandishing them, ready to run or fight at a moment's notice. "Anyone? Hello?" Tommi tried, but it was if being up on stage next to a fifteen-and-a-half hand Rapidash and decked out in fighting clothing made him invisible. Rhyme gave him a sympathetic look and let out a whistle, sharp and painful. At once, everyone sent him a look.

"If you can hear the sound of my voice, clap once," Rhyme called, and about a third of the students responded. He grinned. "If you can hear the sound of my voice, clap two times," and instantly he was echoed by a patter of hands. "And if you can hear the sound of my voice, clap three times," he sang, and everyone in the room did so. He turned to his friend, who was staring in what might have been awe at the thin poet. Rhyme shrugged. "I think it might be genetically written into them to respond to that," he whispered conspiratorially, "Too many generations of kindergarten teachers."

"I think I love you," Tommi said dully, staring at the beaming boy, before returning to the crowd. "Right," he said into the microphone, "So. I have these ear plugs. I need you… Well, I need you to put them in. They're hooked up with one another, so we'll be able to talk. There's all different channels, too, so you can go about your pretty private communications and no one need overhear. And then… Also… there will be a time when you can hear everything around you because they were built that way. Um. That's…that's about it."

"Get off the stage!" someone called from the back, and laughter spread through the room. Ice apparently did not appreciate the sound, and whinnied dangerously, bucking backwards and prancing around.

"Look," Tommi said, exasperated, careful not to get too close to the beast, "I really wouldn't be doing this if I didn't have to. I mean, let's face it. I just don't sit around all day planning public humiliation. I actually have a goal in mind. And while I can't _tell_ you, I really just need you to…just…please have faith."

It was silent. Not a good, awed-over silence, but a tight, heavy one. People were already turning and talking to their neighbors. He was crazy, obviously, and he'd just blown a hole through the cafeteria. Snow was whisking in from the outdoors, and several thin-limbed girls were shrieking and making a big deal of it, hiding behind a boy or two as if the very touch of it would kill them: witches near water.

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "It's Twine. Well, the Eve of Twine. And I know most of you are smashed, but Twine is about faith, isn't it? It's about this idea that Mew Two even exists, much less as the brother of Mew. Now, I don't know about you, but I've done some stupid things on Twine, and I've done them in the name of faith. I mean, there's that stupid tradition where you swallow twelve grapes, one for each of the chimes of the clock. And then there's the one where you make everyone a twine bracelet in pretty colors and it's supposed to be like you're binding everyone to you. What's so different about putting in these ear plugs? It will be like they're not there at all, I promise. We're running out of time. Please. Just… Please."

There was no ripple of mutual understanding or anything. Most people were chatting among themselves and ignoring him completely. Purposeful speeches, Tommi thought, did not go over well in real life, even with an imposing beast beside him and a lithe lightning creature at his feet.

Someone stepped forwards, and he had to blink before he recognized her. Izzy, surrounded by her friends. She didn't appear drunk at all, but rather bored actually. Parties, she was discovering, were significantly less awesome when everyone around you is hammered. "Alright," she called up, "Send me and my buddies down some. And Grace," she smiled, "Grace too." It was almost an insult, but it was too close to playing to be anything else. Tommi sank to his haunches and pulled little packets of moldable plastic out, handing them to the people who were slowly slinking from the crowd to receive them, some in curiosity, some out of pity. Tommi frowned as he watched the passage of hands: Nathan, Will, Orson, Jarel, Kratch, Mika. Tobi and Davion. So few freshmen. Too many people where just waiting around for the music to start again. The members of the little rebel team had dragged their friends over, and the freshmen who didn't hate him for being the bearer of bad news were sort of just winging it, but still the moon rose and not enough people thought for themselves. Sage and Talyn. Time grew so thin around the muttering crowd that was grinning as they placed the headphones in. No, it wasn't time to think of their shame in their actions. It wasn't time because there was just no time left.

Izzy waited for her friends to do it before she put one in. Tommi stared at his watch. Too close. Too close. Why hadn't he been keeping track of time? She was fitting the other one in when it struck, clear, impossible, a plague.

The Silent Hour.

xxxxxxx

Ike knew the Silent Hour better than his own skin. Once it had been the one moment when sleep caught him. Now it was just another memory, click, whirr, click, whirr. The green images flickered before him.

He had five tally marks on his shoulder.

They burned like nothing else.

xxxxxxx

Once there was a tale of a girl who went to sleep for one hundred years before her true love rescued her and woke her up. But before that, before the castle grew over in ivy and the years passed by in slicks and slivers, before that there were two fairies of equal power, fighting in their vain ways for dominion.

Oh to be the black-haired one with piercing eyes and pointed teeth. Lilac and dressed in patience, she was the one that everyone loved, so sweet in the spells she cast. Too true of her twin, dressed down in despair, loved by none but her half-thing minions, by her own shadow and spun silver webs. She would cry to pass the time, while the little lilac one would twirl around outside, ever alive, ever a liar.

One day, for the joy of being cruel, the lilac one took her sister and put her in new clothes, soft clothes, the clothes that made her look like a fairy and not a witch. They traded places for a day, and the dark one, so in love with the glitter of the outdoors, felt no hint of her twin's treachery. She attended the ball of a little infant girl, sweet and filled with kindness. She had never been allowed to see such things, and, taken in by the gold and the songs and the laughter, she had forgotten of her other side.

Once an evil fairy was not invited to a party, and, so enraged at the slur, she spoke a spell to bind a baby's death. Once there was a lilac fairy that stepped forwards and refused the fate, speaking instead of a deep sleep that would save the child. Once there came a day when the baby had grown to be beautiful and graceful and everything a parent should want, and thusly to her came her downfall, a spindle and a mistake.

So along, they said, came to us our lilac fairy, surely, for one by one we all fell to sleep, a deep sleep such as that we've never known, a sleep so kind and caring that, upon waking, we had no recognition of the event. It was as if a hundred years had passed without notice. Surely a spell such as that came from our darling fairy, savior of the king's daughter and savior of us all.

Surely, they said, hunting down the one dressed in her black clothes; surely she is the one to blame for all our chaos and hatred. Yes, yes, yes, they cried, slaughtering her broken half-cursed children, what we do is perfect, undeniable, the greatest sin we'll ever sing songs of. Oh, does she weep and attack us not? It is but another trick, another whisper of her evil. Swish, flick, destroy, yield not, tarry not but a second before slewing your blade towards her wretched heart. Take her wings and make her wish she could speak in miracles instead of spells. It is our joy and therefore our right, for only evil can spring from the night.

Tommi watched the girls with their pretty dresses crumple noiselessly, their black-suited shadows tumbling alongside them. They fell like flowers, softly, a smile on their faces and a hand on their hearts. Alice in her House of Cards, watching them tumble like raindrops.

The spell of the dark fairy: a sleep that no one would know of.

xxxxxxx

She watched as the glass

(was it glass? or was this just her world? just another world. no, no world at all.)

cracked –

such a

pretty

split.

xxxxxxx

They stood there, the ones who had taken the earplugs, shocked and shaking with horror. Before them, their fellow students had toppled effortlessly to the ground, their faces glowing in the twinkling Twine lights, their sleep one without a stir.

Izzy yawned and Tommi pressed her hand closer to her head, fitting her last earpiece in tightly enough that her eyes cleared. He hadn't been too late – she looked a little weary, but she would remain awake. She had to. She had to. He could hear his own heartbeat, one two three. A vague hum started in his ears, the sort that reminded him of putting his head underwater, empty, hungry.

He clicked his own headphone, rising from his crouch. "Hey, guys," he said, hearing his own voice echo a little, "Welcome to the Silent Hour."

"Um," a voice said, muffled by the bounds of technology as it shifted to block out only the singing, "What just happened?"

This was met with several mutters of agreement, and then groans as the earplugs click-switched so they worked the way they were supposed to. Those in the Resistance didn't say anything but began picking their way across the bodies. The Sunflower Project was coming together, slowly, impossibly.

"Don't worry," a voice said softly. Tommi looked up. It was Rhyme, smiling down at the freshmen who had suddenly gone pale, "They're not dead. They're asleep."

Tommi twitched his mouth a little, mentally berating himself. Of course. Of course. He could remember his first time in the Silent Hour: horrible, terrible, lonely. As if everyone's heart had stopped at the same time. "Please," he said, "Don't be scared. Everyone will wake up soon, and they won't even remember that they were asleep. Please."

He fumbled in his pocket. Once he'd been able to do these speeches without a prompt, but then Tarrow had left his life for good, and he'd lost the ability to speak in public. Rhyme again took pity on him and started to speak in that new, older voice he had, the calm one that spoke of being bored with sinning all the time, but being unable to stop.

"It's ok," the poet said, sinking to his haunches, "I know it's scary. 'The Silent Hour' even _sounds_ scary. But it's really not. It's more like… well, Tommi can probably explain the math and science better than I can, but it's like someone is taking a sound wave and cancelling out the part of your brain that makes you stay awake. And just like you can tell someone what to dream while they're asleep, the school just gives you little hints of what to believe in. Dream things to believe in."

"_I pledge my loyalty undying to the Dean of Frost_," a boy said suddenly, stepping forwards. Nathan. His eyes were dark. Nathan didn't like being messed with. Plus before all the chaos, he and Izzy were getting pretty close. Cue explosion and it just kind of summarized his life. His announcement made a ripple of recognition spread through the freshmen. Everyone had found that verse inside their mouths at some point, but most of them figured they were just crazy.

"Exactly," Rhyme smiled at the writer, "Things like that. They can't make you squawk or dance around or anything, but they can put little things inside of you, just little nudges here and there."

"Hang on," it was Kratch, one hand on her hip. She was wearing a pretty silver dress, white ribbons around her wrists and neck. She looked like a princess, and she looked pissed. Mostly because if she had known things were going to go down, she wouldn't have bothered with the high heels. "You're telling me that the school is one hundred percent whacko?"

Mika stood by her side. He looked angry too, but mostly he was just a good boyfriend. If she was going to be mad about something, so was he. He had his hands in his tuxedo pockets, fiddling with the shuriken he'd hidden there. You know, just in case.

"Well," Tommi said, tilting his head from side to side, "Mostly just the Dean. See. He's kind of mean. He has this army. Well. Actually. Hang on." Tommi whipped out what might have been a clock, but it was too big and clunky. Nathan made a very small sound, but not many people heard. Tommi stared at it and sighed. "Look. We only have a little bit of time before things get really complicated. So, if you're the kind of person who thinks it's time for a fight, go back to the dorms and get your pokemon and get ready for the hardest night of your lives. I'll send some messengers to get you, and we'll all meet in the same place. Then I'll explain everything. Everything."

"What if that doesn't sound like a good idea?" a girl {oh to be a lilac fairy, all dolled up in lies} said, one hand on her slinky {slutty} red dress. She had put in the earplugs as a joke, but now things were getting creepy and her boyfriend was sleeping on the floor, drool leaking out of his mouth.

"Take the earplugs out," Tommi said darkly. He didn't expect her to – who would be so stupid? – but she was the kind that would rather sleep with everyone than get up and walk with those who thought differently. She wrenched it angrily from her head, and instantly hit the ground. Tommi winced as the others gasped and figured out what was keeping them awake. The girl would have bruises when she woke up. If she woke up. If the world didn't end that day.

"Look, some pretty awful stuff is going down," he said impatiently, "And they planned it for tonight because it's one of the longest nights of the year and they knew everyone would be in one place. Now you can go out with your eyes closed, or you can fight back," he growled.

It was a pointless speech: everyone left awake was already moving towards the dorms, led by the girls. There was no way any of them were going to battle in _those_ shoes.

xxxxxxx

Ice led the way through the snow, burning a trail against the slickness. Nathan walked by her side, one hand on her warm white flank. She wasn't panting at all, even though the run to the dance had been a hard one. She liked the snow, snorting and putting her muzzle into it, shaking it off as it melted against her. She gleamed in the darkness, picking her feet up in a proud, playful way. The small group of people behind her was something out of a storybook: warrior girls in their ballroom dresses, young boys with wide eyes. So much laughter in so much silence.

"What I don't get," Will said, curling his shoulders against the cold, "Is why I had to give my jacket up. That's just sexism. Girls don't _need_ to be warmer than us."

Ice sent him a dark look, stamping one of her hooves dangerously. Nathan laughed. "I think you should be careful what you say around this one, Will," he warned, stroking her side. Will very maturely stuck his tongue out in reply. Tommi was keeping pace with them, but he refused to be too close to the beast. He was pretty positive Ice wanted to eat him as a nice side dish to her usual oats. Nathan stared at him long and hard before clearing his throat and asking, "Can…can I see your watch?"

"What? This one?" Tommi offered, holding out the clunky fob, "It's designed to keep time in the Silent Hour, but it never works otherwise. Caen built it. She's kind of spectacular that way."

Nathan turned it over and over in his hands, and then ran it across his knuckles in the familiar way he had, testing its weight. His eyes were filled with something: not darkness, maybe, no, but some sort of knowledge that escaped the others. He handed it back and shoved his hands into his pockets, thinking.

Grace and Izzy, distinctly not talking to each other, slipped up to where the boys were. Grace smiled and shrugged the jacket closer around her curvy frame, looking at Will as if he was the only person she could see. "Thank you," she murmured, slipping her hand into his, "I know you must be cold."

"Cold? Me? No, that's a girl thing," Will replied, flipping his hair, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She sent him a look and then laughed, gliding away from him, sliding her soft hand away from his and leaving him colder than before. "Oh," he said wittingly, "_That's_ why boys give their jackets up."

Izzy smiled at him as she wrapped her arm around a suddenly very still Nathan, shivering although she was in his coat. "No," she replied, pressing against the warm writer, "It's just because we actually control you. You just like to think that you're in charge."

Nathan had forgotten how to walk momentarily, and it ended in him stumbling and looking pretty stupid and not manly at all, but at least Izzy laughed. He ran his free hand through his hair. "You know," he muttered, "I don't think boys were ever in charge."

She giggled and danced ahead on Ice's fresh path, shimmying a little and humming. She winked over her shoulder. "Of course not," she replied, falling into pace with Kratch and chattering about baseball.

"Wow," was all Will could find to say, "They just…they just really completely own us."

xxxxxxxxx

"Mm, do you think there's enough time to change, or should I just slip on pants under this?" Grace frowned, tilting her head and staring at herself in the mirror. Tabbot and Serafina were underfoot, glad for the sudden attention. She ran her hands through their fur as she bundled together things she thought she would need.

Izzy sent her a look and shrugged. The blonde had just pulled on her own coat over her dress and had slithered into tight, warm leggings, sliding on boots that went up to her knees. She didn't really care how she looked, more focused on what to do about her pokemon. She had three on her hip in their balls, and two out. She bit her lip and bounced Rikka's ball in her hand, unsure. The Lapras was a good fighter, but she was also a bit of a wildcard. Was this really the sort of night that she could risk it?

Her Shiftry was talking to her Slowpoke, she could tell. She smiled at both of them and pinned her hair up, taking the gorgeous coils she'd spent hours on and destroying them. One day, Aster and Galileo would be part of a crack team ready to take on the world. Galileo, she knew, would undoubtedly be a wonderful team leader, full of cunning and wisdom. She liked having him out, but she wished briefly that she'd thought to bring a fire pokemon into her reserve, just to warm her up. No, it was too late now, and her team was still magical, perfect. No one could touch her.

Grace was balancing a few things at once and trying to open her wardrobe door with her toes, clenching Serafina's collar in her mouth. Izzy twitched her mouth and sighed. She was too nice for this nonsense. She padded over and reached for the door, ignoring Grace's muffled protests. She yanked it open.

Izzy screamed.

xxxxxxxx

"Lantana?" Kratch called, stepping cautiously into the room. When no sweet voice greeted her, she skirted to her bedside table, fumbling out the pokeballs she kept in there, nestled in a velvet case. She clicked her belt around her hip, smiling a little. She loved the way it sat, perfect and warm. She frowned as she stared at her selection – from the looks of things, power first.

Of course Skit and Lux were coming, she knew _that_. The two were curled around each other on her bed, nestled in a circle of blue and pink. Her Luxio was snoring again, and she grinned, letting them sleep for just a little longer. The night was going to be a long one, they needed their rest.

Her Mismagius, Mad Hatter, was probably a good choice, and so was Felina, her precious Glameow – Kratch needed the pretty creature's sense of focus and desire to fight. Flynn, although an adorable Hoppip, lost to Tai every time. Tai, being a Kirlia, had too much power to turn down.

No, what it really came down to was Train, that growling, furious ball of fur. The Umbreon did not like her. He did not even pretend to like her. He was worse than Zulu was, and while dating Mika, Kratch had seen a lot of moments where Zulu was particularly awful. No, Train was worse because she couldn't just refuse him a battle, even if he never listened and was purposefully rude. Train had a sheer, uncontrolled power to him that made him invaluable. The only problem was his personality.

"Wow," a voice, rough and cluttered with emotion. "I love not being invited to things."

A little black-coated fairy, all torn up, curses a baby and tells the world to remember her voice, to remember the darkness, to remember to hate her and hurt her.

So they all do, so they all do, because they think they've got the right daughter of night under their fingers, they think that her weeping is her guilt, they think that her wings tear crimson because she's been bathing in blood.

So this is justice, so this is our lawfulness.

Oh to be the lilac fairy and her new-torn twin.

xxxxxxx

"Oh my _Arceus_," Izzy gasped, "All of these presents are for me?" She swung her glowing face to Grace, who was rolling her eyes and dumping her things onto her bed.

"Yes, you silly girl. I've been planning a party for your birthday, except now you go and spoil the surprise," she laughed, sticking out her tongue. "Surprise, I guess."

"You remembered?" Izzy cried, staring at the decorations and favors tucked into the shelves. It was glorious, even in its plastic wrappings.

"Yeah, of course," Grace snorted, "Why do you think I keep having secret meetings with people and I keep sneaking off to talk to people you supposedly don't know?" She was smiling though, a glad, sort of vaguely disappointed smile. She had planned everything perfectly, and now it was ruined. Still, from the joy emanating from her friend, it was worth it.

"So this is why you've been so distant?" Izzy breathed, staring at the girl she had instantly forgiven.

The brunette bit her lip and nodded. "Yeah, sorry about that. I just didn't trust myself not to say anything. I mean, you're my best friend. How could I keep something secret from you?"

Izzy shrieked and hugged her, giggling. "You're my best friend too," she whispered, "I promise. I thought you were so angry with me, and I didn't know what I had done."

"Well," Grace said seriously, "You were born. So, that happened."

"Pants underneath," Izzy said suddenly, "Us two girls have to get going. Heaven only knows that we're the two who save the day."

"Practically the main characters," Grace agreed, slipping the collar around Fina's neck, "Why, we're the best heroines ever."

"They so should write a book about us," Izzy declared, shoving her things into her bag, "It would be pretty awesome."

"I dunno," Grace said slowly, pausing as she pulled on her coat, "I feel like nothing really happens to us at all."

xxxxxxxx

He pawed through his things until he found it – yes, there it was. Wish. A broken, clunky old fob watch that told time in the never hours. He fumbled with it and stared at it, hoping.

Nothing.

The secondhand still ticked in place. It was exactly the same as he'd left it. Of course it was. He sighed and thumped down onto his bed, staring at it. Some wishes never come true, and some watches never tell time again.

Both the boys had gotten their jackets back, and Will had thrown his over his bedpost, clenching a less fashionable but warmer one in his teeth. He balanced on one leg, his Scizor's sharp claw on his other knee, one hand feeding the hungry thing a treat and the other hand spinning around in an attempt at stability. It was an idle, thoughtless pose, but it made Nathan happy for no reason he could name. It was time to move on from broken wishes. He but the clock into his nightstand and pulled out the third pokeball he had to his name.

He held out a treat to Keno, smiling at the Haunter. He ran the now-empty ball over his knuckles, biting the inside of his cheek. He'd worked with Akira a lot since his first day at school, and now they trusted each other completely, but it was the third, largely untouched one that made him pause. He frowned and clipped it to his belt. Just…just in case.

He had let out his Murkrow before the dance, not wanting her wings to cramp. She had a tendency to complain if he kept her too long inside of what she considered to be a cage. Akira was hopping along the floor joyously, occasionally twisting to shuffle her feathers with her beak. Nathan had a soft spot for her, and it showed – she gleamed with contentment and the sheen of a good diet.

Lucario, being just a smidge more responsible than his owner, was putting things into a bag. Will was down on his haunches, making babyish noises to Slash, who was practically vibrating with excitement. The coat had been dropped, but Lucario was already picking it up, sending a reproachful glance to the boy who was practically his twin. Lucario had a little bit of a neat-freak gene, and everything he touched seemed to end up folded, or worse – _ironed._ Already the bag he was packing looked like it belonged in a museum for perfectly positioned artifacts. Nathan's bag looked like a teenage boy had stuck some stuff into it. Nathan wasn't actually sure who got the better deal.

_Pack belong Will is finished. Outside wait the… friends belong Will,_ Lucario said, struggling a little to describe what was just an innate sense of knowing in the pokemon. Will ruffled the fur on his head and thanked him, slinging the pack onto one shoulder and drawing a breath. "Alright then. Let's get our groove on." He paused and flinched {he flinched and the knife slipped by his ribs and into a little girl, he hit the ground and his ribs broke} awkwardly. "Please forget I said that."

Nathan grinned and stood up, brushing down his shirt, pausing to let Akira settle on his shoulder.

_Warning to issue,_ Lucario said, his eyes glowing in that way he had when he was seeing things outside of Will's range of vision, _Friends are not to what Will thinks they are. To be a different…thing._

"It's ok," he promised, "I'm sure that everything is fine. I mean, I'm different, and that has yet to stop me from anything. Well, unless you're referring to the teapot incident, and then we… we promised we'd never speak of that."

Whistling, he led the way down the stairs and out to the front lawn, where a team of Resistance fire pokemon had melted the snow. Someone had taken the Twine lights and made a sort of a landing strip, and with each passing minute Will realized it was pretty much the opposite of what he had expected.

A girl trotted up to him, her Munchlax in tow. Caen, gesturing to them to follow her as she spoke on another line, saying what looked like, "_Jarel and Orson confirm a safe landing. Proceed,"_ but she had turned during it and Nathan had missed a few parts.

The lights were golden in the still darkness, a circle of glittering movement. Members of the Resistance whirled around and made notes on clipboards, looking for all the world about a thousand times more experienced than they were, as if this was the three-hundredth time they'd managed to pull together a moonrise airstrip. A few students, looking as lost as Will felt, stood in line passively, eyes wide and wary. Will smiled as he recognized them: Davion and Tobi, flanked by their pokemon.

Nathan flinched at a brief spurt of feedback, and then Caen was talking to them. "Well boys, say hello to Glutton," she smiled, nodding at her Munchlax, "He'll be signaling the fliers tonight, so be nice to him."

She herded them into the line and grinned. "Well then. All first time fliers, please be advised: there is a slight turbulence over the Heather Gap, and if you're flying Godzilla or Goliath, they _do_ bite," she announced in a perfect stewardess voice, well-practiced and bright. "Please keep your hands and legs _inside_ the vehicle at all times, and if you fall, please try not to die, as no one will be looking for your bodies. Thompson will be over in a minute to take your names and finish filling you in. Wait your turn and remember to stand back when a new flight comes in. Thank you for choosing to fly with us, and enjoy your night." With that, she skipped away to go and get the next group of shivering freshmen.

"Wow," Will breathed, "I just do _not_ remember her being so giddy."

"Yeah, she gets like that," a slow British voice said, "I personally think it's the air that does it. She gets all happy-go-lucky," he smiled, and then tilted his head. "Alright, she was right about the name thing. Give 'em ova'."

Nathan and Will said their names at once, only to repeat them about six times while he got the spelling right. He nodded and flipped through his list, muttering to himself before making a note and looking up again. "Well, you're right lucky brutes. Missed Goliath by one ride. Bloody beast."

"You're just saying that because he hates you," Caen called, and Thompson flinched.

"Well. Yes. That might be a large part of it. He's kind of sexist against boys. It's confusing," he said slowly, tilting his head from side to side. He stared off into the distance and then shuddered a little, shaking it off. "Anyway, you'll be taking Sage's Abra and Ghastly. The Teleport on those two is a little rough, so please keep your arms as close to your body as possible. When you get there, please thank Sage and find Tommi. His Ralts and my Gallade are part of the psychic web we're trying to use to keep _some_ sort of order around here. Ques-_tions_?"

Will raised his hand awkwardly. "Um, where exactly are we going…?" he said slowly, and the boy grinned.

"I'd tell ya, mate, I really would, but that just spoils all the surprises at once," he sang, turning to the next group of people Caen had left behind. Will turned and grinned: it was Izzy and Grace, looking attentive and ready to kill. Will thought Grace had never looked so beautiful.

Nathan considered saying something to the girls, but it seemed safer to let Thompson explain the whole thing. Besides, it wasn't like they were the only friends he had, even if sometimes it seemed like the entire world revolved around them.

Tobi was shifting from one foot to the other, his Cubone pressed against his leg, chirping happily to the Growlithe at Davion's feet. The model was clutching his Zangoose to his chest, staring at the expanse of grass where the incoming pokemon would land. He was thinking about wind resistance and wondering if it was strictly possible to keep two pokemon in his lap while balancing on a moving creature.

Pyro, grinning, snorted at the other fire pokemon around the base: bigger than him meant nothing at all. He tottered on his Charmeleon legs, keening towards the sky. One day, one day he would be able to fly.

Felix passed by, holding his Espeon to his chest. The violet creature's sleepy eyes were glowing with power, and the magician had the distant look of someone listening to a psychic message. He trotted to Thompson and confirmed something, and then click-hissed onto the group radio frequency.

"My darlings," he said, "Esper has received a transmission. There is an incoming pokemon: a Pidgeot by the name of Sweet. If you have received notice that this is your flight, please stand by to board, like a prisoner awaiting salvation." The earplugs hissed again, and then they were back to their normal chatter.

A low keening struck the sky, and a dart of feathers appeared from the forest. She was large, the sort of heft that years in the wild granted. She was all sinew, and one look at her was all it took to know that she was just putting up with carrying passengers. She was still wild to her core.

From the end of the makeshift runway, Glutton let out an impressive Solar Beam, lighting the way for the feathered beast. The headphones had adjusted enough for them to hear her let out a warning shriek as she dove, her feathers brushing the grass as she sped forwards. She tilted her wings backwards, and the backdraft they created whipped papers from clipboards and made the cold bite into jackets.

Her talons dug into the grass and she fluttered to a stop, turning around herself a few times before coming to a halt. She was a little taller than Davion, and the saddle on her back could easily hold the two boys. There were two sidecar-like nooks beside each seat, perfect for stashing pokemon. Caen padded over and placed a rickety ladder against the great beast as Thompson petted her beak and fed her some mangoes. She shifted her feet as she choked them back, singing happily.

"All aboard," Caen hummed, motioning for the two to climb the ladder. Davion was first: unsure on the thin beams as he clambered up onto Sweet's back. She lurched for another mango and he scrambled for a hold before sliding into the rough-hewn saddle. Tobi passed up Jared and Gingi, and the model slipped them comfortably into their places, checking to ensure they were safely secured before he set to strapping himself in. He helped his roommate up and then sat forward, his hands around the pommel, his feet secure against Sweet's side. Caen was twirling around, tightening straps and repeating her warnings. "Sweet likes to bank rough," she said, as if she expected them to understand, "But she won't try and get rid of you like Godzilla would. Remember to grip with your knees, or you'll tumble like no one's business." She gave them both wide goggles and showed the boys how to strap them on, laughing at their confusion.

When everything seemed set, the dark-haired girl stepped back and peered at her handiwork, her hands on her hips. She nodded once and signaled for takeoff lights. Several fire pokemon lit a torch in the back of their throats while Glutton whipped out his Solar Beam, a sheer impassible wall of light against the darkness. Caen drew a breath and whistled harshly, strong and loudly.

Instantly Sweet responded with a keen and a few steps forwards. Davion and Tobi lurched in their saddles, trying to remember all the tactics Caen had spewed about holding on. They hunkered low and tried to grip with whatever obscure thigh muscles they possessed.

With a sharp jerk, she twisted her wings and took off, and instantly both boys were thankful of the goggles. The air was furious against them as she sped up, bouncing on the air currents before she caught a solid one.

Under them, growing into a black smear, the forest of Frost stretched out ad infinitum. The glow of the landing strip disappeared, swallowed into the darkness. The moon, lazy and near the horizon, hovered ever upwards, a bright sun in nothingness. A silver river dragged underneath them, dashing back their reflection, broken and beautiful. Everything smelled like pine and untouched air. Under them, Sweet sang her pure song, humming as if nothing mattered at all, as if the trees touched in snow were the only thing to worry about: so close that they bent from her movement.

The saddest facet of humanity has always been the loss of our wings. We know nothing until we know of flight, for all we yearn for is that touch of sky again. Even in silence, even with loved ones dead to the world, even then the spell is broken from us and we are human no longer.

And no longer human, we are therefore free.

xxxxxxxxx

Her hand flew to her belt. She fumbled slightly, but her fingers secured around the sharp edges of a shuriken. She whipped around, snarling. She would go down fighting, down with a bang, down in flames, down and – oh wait, she knew who had spoken.

She sighed and eased her grip on the weapon, running her free hand through her hair. "Ugh, Mimi. You scared the daylights out of me."

"Sorry, is that a _shuriken?_" Mimi laughed, trailing her hand across the bedspread. She peered closer and gasped. "Kratch, you're bleeding."

Kratch looked down and swore, dropping the blade and hissing, shaking out her hand as if that would heal the wound. She examined the shallow cut and clutched it, grimacing. "Yeah," she said through her teeth, "It's a shuriken. Mika gave it to me. He said that practically everything that can go wrong does go wrong around me, and that I should be able to protect myself. He's been giving me fighting lessons."

"Apparently those lessons aren't working," Mika said, leaning against the doorframe, "Since they were designed to protect you, not injure you in new and interesting ways." He pushed off from the wall and padded over to his girlfriend, turning her injured palm over and kissing the inside of her wrist. He had swapped the suit for a few pieces of lightweight armor, but most of him was just covered in black clothes that looked really disgustingly comfortable. He slung his bag to his front, pawing through it for bandages.

"That's cool, I guess," Mimi shrugged, taking a step away and crossing her arms. She had changed a lot since she had been in the hospital, but her mostly-blue clothing remained. Her long, almost-black hair had a new florescent azure streak through it, and she was using just a little bit too much eyeliner. She wore bracelets up and down her arms, and the number of rings on her fingers was pretty impressive.

She had a quiet rasp to her voice that was particularly disconcerting, but hey, she was alive, break out the vodka and celebrate. Something had twisted and maybe it was because when she thought back, it was a river of plastic tubes and I.V drips and chemical comas and oh so tired all the time, tired of life and lies and lying awake staring at a scalloped ceiling. Oh, yeah, that part, her favorite, waking up next to a stranger, how about that? No friends to stand by you, but you can stand by yourself, daisies in a pastel vase and shadows on a window sill, come-and-and-get-me attitude and um screw you, sir, and here's to the world, drink up me hearties, _yo ho._

She laughed awkwardly and ran her tongue over her teeth, staring at her fingernails. "I'll just go then," she half-smiled, chagrined, rain child, hold on while your life slips from your fingers, sitting on a swing-set and staring at a storm.

"You don't need to," Mika said, ever calm, a voice like hay and stables, comfort and hot chocolate, "We'll walk out with you." Some days she was jealous. No, she was annoyed. You wake up poisoned and see how you like it, you don't, she's blind and invisible. Broken always.

"No," she smiled, sweet as ever, remember when we were friends? Yeah, never mind. "I'll just go. I promised a party of one anyway. Don't want to make them all confused. They might think I have friends," a chuckle, because it's funny, because it's five o'clock somewhere, because it's no use to wonder what might have been because we only exist once.

Mika opened his mouth to say something {to say, Well you horrendous wench, I'm glad you won't be around to wreck the fun, to be a little black speck on humanity, to spoil the sparkle of my lilac fairy} but she was already gone, cutting her losses and cutting him off.

He frowned. "I wish she had gone with us," he murmured, staring at where she used to be, "Something is very wrong with her. I can tell."

But he was someone else's knight in shining armor. Not every damsel gets to be saved.

xxxxxxx

Nathan and Will waited in line impatiently, staring at the sky and chatting with the girls. Felix, petting Esper's ears, gave them a pitying look and tilted his head to the side. Spiral was out on the edges of darkness, flicking in and out of focus, laughing and clapping her hands. Felix ignored her.

"First time teleporting?" he purred to the pale writer. Nathan frowned nervously and nodded sharply. He expected some backlash from this: the disapproving tut of an amused girl, a playful punch from Will. But no one seemed to have had the experience either.

"Not a problem. Everyone has a first time. Mine actually happened about fourteen minutes ago. Just try not to breathe in the in-between space," he advised, and then Esper's eyes glowed with another incoming message. "Your taxi has arrived," he smiled.

A space before them went suddenly dark, erased as though it had never existed in the first place. Suddenly a swirl of light exploded into being and Abra and Gastly materialized before them, one with sleepy eyes and the other with angry sighs. It looked to be a simple process: one pokemon for each boy and his pets.

They all stood in a large circle, holding hands and feeling slightly silly. The countdown started: Five… four… three… two…Nathan closed his eyes.

Such a sensation existed not in nature but rather outside the bounds of it, whether in some twilight zone of molecular disarray or the vast expanse of human memory. It was as if they were being torn apart and pieced back together simultaneously. Flashes of twisted things appeared and faded as quickly as the next imposing image. A woman with soft brown eyes, an empty playground and two orphans, a black ceiling fan casting shadows on the sky, a city from inside a car, sleeping in caves, a funeral, a game of jacks, a clock stopped, playing as pirates, stealing to live, a handshake, two boys meeting, the slur of conversations happening so slowly that they burned and passing so quickly they might have never occurred at all.

Then, only and instant {a million years, a thousand seconds, so many months that time stopped working} they opened their eyes in the middle of a snow-covered field where the frail stalks of thin trees played against the moonlight.

Both of them did not move. They could not: their bodies were shivering so terribly that they could hardly draw a breath. It was as if someone had compressed time around them, and in that in-between space, all sense of heat had been eradicated. Yet both had the sense that they had been someplace deliciously warm, shunned from the sun to the ocean as if this world was the coldest fragmentation of space.

Someone – Avalon, Nathan noted dimly – put a blanket around each of their shoulders and ran a hand across their perfectly fine pokemon. It was evidently a human fault, the fear of space. Avalon laughed a little, but in a quiet, sympathetic way.

"Yeah," she said, leading them down the path hewn in the snow towards the building in the distance, "First time sucks."

xxxxxxxx

Grace and Izzy watched the boys dissolve in front of them and blinked, standing in the busy terminal and feeling vaguely in the way. They were friends again, though, and that was something Izzy had missed. Grace, for all her oddness, had never been anything except nice. Izzy knew that she had panicked for no reason. They chatted and braced themselves against the wind. Izzy was immensely grateful of Serafina's warm glow. She loved being able to pet the creature. Even when she had hated Grace, Tab and Fina had always found favor in her eyes.

Thompson's Gallade and Esper's eyes glowed, and a warning went out that Goliath was landing. Suddenly everyone was moving: the lights were made into a broader strip, the fire flares went up, and everyone took a large step backwards. Grace and Izzy looked around, startled, out of their element.

Goliath streaked from the sky in a blaze of orange-red, a roaring fury of motion that blazed in a downwards tilt towards the ground. At the last possible moment he snapped open his wings and the updraft was enough to make people stumble, his long claws slicing into the turf. Goliath was a Charizard and he was evidently not happy. He crouched on all fours, shifting his weight, his maw rumbling with a cautionary snarl.

The moment he was out of the sky, everyone was speeding though their motions. Ropes and harnesses and muzzles found their way onto the beast, and instinctively Izzy cried out. She didn't want him hurt on their account, but Thomspon shook his head. "He's fine," he said, seeing her pale face. "Honestly, with our best guys we can't hold him for more than a second, if he really wanted to leave. He's just being dramatic."

Izzy nodded that she understood, but it still didn't sit well with her, not really. Grace was just staring at the contraption on his back that she assumed would hold them. It was as if someone had taken a boat, sawn it in half and flipped it over, creating an aerodynamic structure with clear tarp walls and flimsy framework. Over his churning muscles, between his writhing wings, it looked pathetic and manmade.

Grace smiled and approached the ladder three people were balancing against his dark-orange skin. She scampered up it quickly, her hands tight against the rickety thing. She paled as he shifted and it tilted dangerously backwards, but with the conjoined effort of those on the ground, it righted and she was able to slide through a flap in the plastic side in the curious construction.

Getting Tab and Fina up included the help of Aster – they jumped and he caught the wind under their paws to lift them the few feet they had left. Tab seemed pretty ok with it, but Fina let out a yelp. Instantly Goliath thrashed and snapped at her, his glistening white teeth inches from her face. She responded with her own growl as she landed on his back, content with her feet on what she assumed was the ground. She then padded into the safety behind the tarps and let Grace hook her up to the harnesses inside.

From there it was infinitely easier – Izzy just put Aster and Galileo into a basket that Grace lifted to the top, and Izzy scampered up the ladder behind them. She peered at the half-plastic, half-wood thing and noted that it would be flexible enough to survive flight while being distinctly overprotective with the number of harnesses that were inside.

She soon discovered that it was her pets that got the brunt to those contraptions, strapped in every which way. She and Grace ended up seated next to each other on a bench with only a single bucle across their laps. The ceiling was supported by a thick wood beam that had dozens of signatures on it. Grace flinched as she saw, "_Lead ingénue: Tarrow Arcana_," in swooping cursive, but she averted her eyes and focused forwards to the back of the great creature's neck. A lot of fussing from Caen and the others later, the go signal flared and Goliath tensed.

He keened and jumped, waiting for the last second before stretching out those wide orange and blue wings, their creak-crunch-click a strangely familiar and comforting sound. His muscles pulled taunt as he beat against gravity, straining for height. With a low growl, he plunged his wings into the air, shooting himself forwards with a vicious, wonderful speed. Every motion was perfect and practiced, so wild in its sheer control, designed for soaring at top velocities. Every wing-beat made the ground pass faster beneath them, black against the glow of his body.

The girls watched it with a sort of detached amazement – from his back, they could feel every movement, but the air cut cleanly around the structure, leaving them untouched. They could see for miles, but both of them watched his movements. Something in him was so entrancing; something in his freedom, something in the way he almost seemed to smile caught them and caused them to grin.

He sped forwards with the ease of a creature born to fly, of being wild-hearted, of being wild still. He keened and banked left, strafing the trees and coming in hot. Below them, a signal beam went up and he darted towards it, folding his wings backwards and relaxing his muscles.

It worked as a parachute: jostling but comforting. He thudded to the ground, running the last few feet down the lighted path before tilting to allow them down, taking a few idle snaps at them as they disembarked. He butted Serafina's side with his nose and then lunged upwards, battling the sky much faster than he had when they were on his back – soon he was nothing more than a blur, and then he was gone.

"Yeah, we love him too," Rhyme said affectionately, "Even if he is a sexist drama queen. Come on, report to Tommi. He'll tell you where to go." He pushed them gently towards where the writer was standing with Raqy, the Raltz's rose eyes glowing gold under its hood. Tommi took someone's goggles and handed them off to the flight crew while talking to the two boys the entire time.

On shaky legs, the girls went up to him. He grinned and sent a glance askance to the sky. "Goliath, huh?" he laughed, and showed them where everyone was heading, "Can't say no to him, even if he does want to eat us. Just follow everyone else. If you've hit woods or someone playing country music in seriousness, you've gone too far."

They laughed and clunked down the path to the doors, stepping inside to the close warmth of the building. Their jaws dropped.

"Wow," Izzy managed, "It's bigger on the inside."

xxxxxx

She was falling apart with white faces when she closed her eyes.

She stood in line and whistled like hey ho, it's off to work we go, life isn't bliss, life is just this, it's living. No she wasn't crazy actually. She was perfectly normal, actually. Actually.

"Just you then?" someone asked, and she nodded. Screw it. Everyone else had their kitschy little groups. "You'll take Ice. Be gentle on her or Torrie will probably kill you until you are dead, and then you will be dead. Yes ok." His grin said _I'm joking_ but she didn't feel like laughing because she was – she was – she was –

Once she had woken up in a hospital room and only a pretty stranger with there, speaking of a boy who could dance to break the world. Carmen with her gorgeous hurt eyes {maybe she was the one broken and Mimi was just a game} was very nice, and it was oh so sweet of her to check up on someone she'd never met. But what about Grace and Izzy and all of those friends she had thought that she had? Where had they been? Kratch stopped by once, carrying daisies in a plastic puce vase, smiling sadly and talking about Yuki and Jason and Tarrow and all Mimi, so selfish, she guessed, could think was that she had almost been on that list, that she was almost another grave. And then Mika had stolen Kratch too. But where was everyone else, waiting for her to wake up? To say, "I know you existed," and – _and _– what if she _had_ died? And maybe that's really where she spiraled. She could forgive them maybe for not being there the exact moment that she opened her eyes, because there was no way that they could have known when that would be. No, no, it was the brief moment where her heart stopped. No one had been there. No one was there to burst into tears or faint or just made some motion to prove that Mimi mattered. And that was what was a glorious lilac in her blackness.

She would have died alone.

xxxxxxx

The room was mostly filled already, but by the time everyone was inside, it was packed. Several people sat on top of each other or on the arms of chairs or on tables or on the windowsill. There was so much talking, just to make up for the stillness outside. The freshmen were all greeted warmly and introduced to everyone just a little too quickly: their heads were already spinning when Tommi stepped onto the table and cleared his throat. He lent a hand to Torrie and Caen to pull them upwards as well, and then began his speech.

"My darlings," he smiled, "Each of you is so special to be here. Thanks so much. I promised you guys an explanation, so you're going to get one," he grinned. He paused and ran his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath. "I don't know where to start. The Silent Hour, I guess."

Torrie straightened her spine and brushed her hands together. "So that's my cue. See, I figured out the Silent Hour, or the Still Hour, or the Whatever You Want To Call It Hour. It's pretty simple, if you think about it. Something inside your brain has to keep you awake, right? And something makes you remember what you dreamed of. And just like a teacher talking in a monotone when the lights are dim and it's warm, certain things put you to sleep. It's the fact that it's an instant reaction that we can't figure out. We figure the inability to remember is probably due to something in the food. Well. Probably. Your headphones block out the sound waves. Sound cancellation, pretty much. We high-jacked plane earbuds and managed it out."

"Which brings us to what we figured out," Caen spoke up, "And that's that our school isn't exactly the nicest mud puddle on the block. In the Silent Hour, they've been programming you. And since everyone is all tucked in and napping, they can do whatever the heck they want. So they've been building an army for the express purpose of… well, we don't know, actually." She paused and frowned a little, biting her lip. "But they take students and make them into these… these _killers_, and they call it the House of Cards. They're … they're…" she trailed off and looked away.

"They're the ones that killed Tarrow," Avalon said monotonously from the crowd, her dark eyes clear, "They are the reason that Jason is dead as well. Students – like Yuki, for example – disappear. The House has them forever."

"And you're all next," Caen continued softly, "We've got some teachers on our side, and they've been reporting to us all of the plans. They waited until everyone was in one place for the dance so that they can unleash the House. Everyone would fall asleep in the Silent Hour and be left completely defenseless. They would kill you. All of you."

"Which is why you've got to fight. We're the last defense against the army the Dean has created. If you don't fight, _everyone dies,_" Torrie said darkly, her teeth flashing in the light.

"Which brings us to the fun bit," Tommi grinned, "The people that you're up against."

Everyone was quiet, focused on his sharp teeth and grey hair. "The people that you're battling," he said, his voice like all those years on repeat, "Are yourselves."

X-X

**A.N: Surprise? Making up for being late all of the time :) This is why I should have more snow-days. Frost is coming to a close, soon, so I hope all the next chapters amaze you or at least make you think. :)  
**

**Thanks times a bazillion to Hiro, my knight in shining armor and the editor of this chapter. It actually was terrible and confusing until he rode over on his white horse and said, "Halt, for thou art making several grammatical mistakes."**

**Also, I'm just saying, I'd totally risk being at Frost for a ride on Goliath. Maybe that's just me. :P**

**Love to you, my reviewers. You make sure I actually feel like someone's listening and/or pondering my craziness. And silent readers. I love you too, promise :)**

**Alright then, Twenty-Four will hopefully be up in no time, but until then, I hope this one makes you happy :)**

**Take care.  
**


	24. Chapter 24

"…_is yourselves."_

Collective gasp and confused chatter, and all she could think was: I should _not_ have worn a thong.

xxxxxxx

He had a dream about a scarlet-covered seamstress that was mixing her needles in a bale of hay, while the sun shifted through her summer hair. _Prithee, _though he had inquired, _What brings you to this barn to mix your needles alongside the hay?_

And lo, though she had cast her eyes to him, deep embers of a burning soul, a fever respite from the eternities of condemnation. Therein and long after, she made to speak, hers the descent of tongue so willing to bend the way of humanity that at once he was enamored, hers the honey hair and cherry eyes – cherry, it must be, for so amber they were that they were as sanguine as her dress – and thus she asked unto him; _Does it matter?_

And while he could discern no reason to feel so hasty, at the moment it appeared very much to matter. It mattered more than the world itself. _Please,_ he had begged, _The curiosity bites so tightly against my skin. For what reason do you mix your needles into the hay?_

And though she did not respond, he knew, a deep thud against his chest in clamorous declaration of knowledge. The answer was deep within the question. For what did it matter?

For what did anything matter at all?

xxxxxxx

"Let me… let me explain," Tommi purred in his new-tulle voice, kneading the air with his hands as if he was patting down their emotions. "Please, let me explain," he tried again, but that was stupid. Everyone was silent, waiting. Something sharp with upset hung in the room: the hive buzzed with frustration.

"Hang on," someone called, rough brown hair, oh god the bowl-cut really looks good on _no-one,_ "Are you trying to say that we'll be fighting and possibly dying, and it's going to be against each-_other_? That was _not_ part of the deal."

"Well, first of all –" Tommi began, but now it was a girl from his left, out of his peripheral vision. Ninja.

"We're going to die?" Her voice was contrary to what it should have been: not scared, not hopeful, monotone, Is it going to rain, or What's for dinner, her eyes so black they were endless.

"What I'm trying to say is –" Tommi tried again, losing his cool, biting his lip, shaking his head.

"I don't want to die," shriek, female – no, male, freshmen, they get dead so young these days, "Or… or my pokemon to be hurt…" afterthought. Rebound agreement – not dying sounded good. Also that thing about not battling. Right. Right.

"_Shut up_," Avalon, actually, her voice ink toxic {Technicolor} and her pink lips pulled back over white teeth, "Tommi's trying to talk. Keep interrupting, and you'll never get it." She had a new short temper, like fragmented sentences. Blunt, to the point. She could never be a writer with that attitude.

"Th-thanks, Avs," Tommi smiled at her, and she nodded, a single shrug, one shoulder, Eh, no problem, I tame crowds for a summer job. Tommi coughed a little and continued, "Look, guys. I didn't mean for you to freak out. But it's not actually all of you. It's just the ones with tattoos."

xxxxxxx

Solar angels played across her lips. She'd been here before, but it had tasted like brine salt back then. She fiddled with the device.

"What if it doesn't work?" she breathed, running her hand through her hair, "What if it doesn't work?"

"Asking," he murmured, "Won't change anything. It's worked so far, darling. Let it be."

She put it down and shifted one-two, hip to hip as if weighing the world. She pouted in magic-marker red. "But baby," she whined, "What if they don't all die?"

He shrugged, lifting one black-clothed shoulder idly. "But baby girl," he said smoothly, cocking the gun in his hand, "They will."

xxxxxxx

He dropped his voice. "I need you to suspend your disbelief, just for a moment. I need you to have faith."

No one moved.

So he told a story.

xxxxxxx

Lily drew circles on her hand and yawned backwards. Deep in the nadir of the House, Cherry was baking a pie and humming to the tune of an oven. Bluebell was being a charming arsonist next to her, laughing as flames danced against her skin.

Click-clack, look who decided to show up. She sighed and shook her hair in front of her face and then flipped it backwards. Sometimes she paid too much attention to what she looked like. Colorado was always yelling at her for that.

"You called?" she drawled, swiping her fingers through the icing, "Something about Lily?"

She sat on a stool, crossing her pretty ankles over each other and licking her finger off, using her free hand to gently pat out Bell's unhurried candlelight. It hissed against her hand, but there was no such thing as pain in the House, not really. Bell pouted and crossed her arms.

"It's real bad," Colorado said from the corner, her soft voice the same wonderful, spine-chillingly beautiful hymn that it always was, "Lily says it's going down tonight."

She frowned and shook her head, reaching towards the batter. Cherry smacked her lovingly and continued, "So we needed you back."

"Sure enough," she grinned, lopsided, "Can't be one of you, after all. Always has to be me, I guess."

"You're the only healthy one," Colorado murmured, so shy. She was so pretty, so, so, pretty. Colorado would have been the perfect one, if it wasn't for what was rotting her from the inside out. Everyone knew it, too. Colorado had been replaced by Cherry, and then Cherry by Bluebell. Probably.

The skinny healthy oh too wonderful {not wonderful enough} girl sighed, flipping her hair again. Colorado had a point, because Colorado was perfect. Mostly. All of them stuck at the House were only mostly perfect.

"So then," she laughed, "I guess it's time we started killing each other."

White eyes padded into the room. She looked so sad in her baggy ivory dress, dirty and sliding off her shoulder. She rubbed her cheek with the pad of her hand tiredly. "I see such awful things," she whimpered, "Everything ends with a spark and falling embers. Bodies of boys already dead."

Every fell silent as she slid into the room, coughing a little, feeling her way around. Cherry gently led her to the batter, letting her snag a little from the bowl.

"And oh," Lily said in that weary voice, "Welcome back, Lantana."

xxxxxxx

Tommi spoke: It was so easy for them, for those clever little black-suited children of night. No, of light, of unbearable lightness, of train tracks and crying on a bench because the skin never heals and the scar on the back of your hand hurts always.

So to war, to aimlessness, to a battle of wits and facing down the things you love most in this world and saying, _Hello, die now_, saying goodbye sunshine and letting nothing hurt you except yourself. A battle for the freshmen, so easy, a word: orientation. Nothing, it was nothing but a ploy. It was always a ploy.

This is how it worked: they took the faces of the ones who won and then tagged them with those little tally marks, one for each of the copies that they'd made of you.

Oh. But no. But that couldn't be true, for surely someone would have noticed at least the sheer amount of _power_ required to – if this is what you're saying, you crazy man – make _clones._

Oh no. It's so much more tangled than that.

xxxxxxx

There was about to be a bullet hole in her head, just the way he liked it. He licked the blood off his thumbnail and made a face. It tasted like iron, like gunpowder.

"And that's whatcha get when you play with fire," he laughed, couching and mussing up her hair as she panted, her face pressed against the granite sink, her mascara running in black rivers down her face. She had stopped crying, which was nice.

"You get burned," someone said from the doorway, leaning against it, rolling her eyes. "Seriously, Jacob? Just kill her already. Don't torture her with bad one-liners. Show some mercy."

Eilsa was wearing a dress – ecru, maybe, or eggshell. It was a glorious gold-white and made her look so perfect. She had let her hair down for their fake little ball, but there was still a black dagger strapped to her forearm. Jacob had been her plus-one, all dressed up in a tux for the occasion.

Oh this woman, hacking up her insides and pressing her hand against the basin to keep steady. She was so ugly, sometimes, maybe. Jacob shrugged and shook his head. "You know," he told her, "I'm usually the nice one. But you pull me away from the dance so I can kill you, and then you get blood on my date's dress. I'm afraid that as a man of action, I can't let that stand."

He paused. "Loved your photo class though," he allowed, ducking his head to one side.

He stepped back and Click-Click Boom.

xxxxxxx

Tiredly, desperately, he continued: First of all, they don't work out correctly. It's like a broken Xerox machine – something always goes wrong. They're like skin sacks, puppets that need better sowing. Their insides don't function the way they should, their brains aren't self-aware. So on and so forth.

And then the energy it takes to make one of those saffron clones. It's making life, after all, even if it's a broken, horrible reproduction of life. It's not exactly like you can just hook them up to the plug in the wall. They need a constant, intense source of power.

So we come to your pokemon, and how easy it was to steal them out of your fingers.

xxxxxxx

The next night, he had another dream about that woman in the sanguine dress. Her hair was now in tangles, and she was drawing circles in the dirt, mumbling. He pulled his hand to his chest, worried. _Why are you drawing circles in the dirt of the slaughterhouse?_

She did not look up, but instead began to mumble _Why is this today and not the next day? Why are you here now and not later? Why are you my baby and not a pretty pistol in a bassinet? _She was in tatters, her fingers so sweet-bloody from scraping over the metal floor.

_Please,_ he begged, as he'd begged before, _I wouldn't be so pushy but I'm desperate. Why are you drawing circles in the dirt of the slaughterhouse?_ It seemed so important, so important, inexplicably.

She looked up, her face streaked in mud. She grinned that fake fading smile and patted her thighs. _Honey with the yellow bill landed on my window sill, cocked his black-tar eye and said, Want to die, you sleepyhead?_

Of course of course, it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

She screamed and the screen broke.

xxxxxxx

The grey-haired boy continued: It was Orson and Jarel. They figured it out. When your pokemon went missing, it wasn't because we had taken them. It was because the school had. They were making little files on you. And then that battle. That battle was nothing more than seeing which group of pokemon was the strongest and which people would be ruthless enough to win. Then the people who won were taken into the hospital to have their DNA swabbed, taken from a cut on their ankle. But the pokemon – it was never over for them.

Everyone knows that a pokeball defies some law of physics, because a body's mass must be preserved. If you suck up a little Goldeen, sure, it's be light, but what about a Garados? The law of conservation of mass literally does cartwheels around that one.

The thing is: your pokemon are _not_ inside their pokeballs at any point. Think of the pokeball as a portal, or an instant teleportation device. Jarel explained it as a door for me: you open the pokeball, the pokemon are dematerialized, and rematerialize elsewhere. The question is where the other side of the door is.

Usually, when one isn't considering clones and other nice things, the portal opens to deposit pokemon in care centers. So every time you call out your pokemon, the door opens again, and they go from the care center to the battlefield and everything is wonderful, no harm done. But the Dean figured out how to change where the door opens.

He built a device that covered the pokeballs to make them open where he chose them to, and spent all that time you were looking for them, he was hard at work. The pokemon could now appear at his command anywhere in space.

He narrowed down the powerful pokemon and then programmed the pokeballs so that every time you recalled your pokemon, they wouldn't be pulled into a care center, they'd be pulled where he wanted them to be pulled.

Which brings us to power and how he made the clones. A pokemon, I'm sure you all have realized, has the ability to expend serious amounts of energy at just an order. And it was easy as that – once he got them where he needed them, he could force them to spend hours powering his machines. The man is a genius. He solved the energy crisis. He was also torturing your pokemon.

The reason we aren't allowed to battle on campus is because he was scared we'd notice how tired our pokemon were. But the thing is, he knew he was also making the friend of his enemy stronger. So he had to put something in place to work damage control.

So he created the House of Cards.

xxxxxxx

He flinched as the news reached him. Unexpected, maybe, but that's what you get when you order a hit on someone: usually they die. She happened to die next to her bathroom mirror, her brains a beautiful smear, but hey. That's what was called _dramatic irony_, or something. No, that was when the audience knew what was about to occur was a "bad thing," wasn't it? Who cared anyway.

"You're sure she's dead?" but the messenger sent him an _are you serious right now_ look and slid away, disappearing in that way that they all had. It would have made his skin crawl but he was too busy being, you know, kind of delighted.

He pulled out his phone and thumbed the number. "_What," _scratched the voice on the other side, "_What, what do you want?"_

"Kaylee Norad is dead."

xxxxxxx

There wasn't exactly the silence he'd hoped for, but in general it was pretty quiet. They were, after all, a group of teenagers. It wasn't like they were actually going to be able to stop themselves from talking.

"Hang on," the bowl-cut boy said, absently raising his hand through force of habit, "You're telling us that for every one of us who won the battle, there is a clone powered by the sheer suffering of our pokemon, protected by a semi-cult of student assassins? Do you even know what the Dean intends to _do_ with these…clones?"

"Yeah," a soft voice said, "Maybe he's just experimenting to see if he can recreate organs to help people. Maybe he's just really nice and too shy to ask for our pokemon."

"The Dean can be nice, right?" someone called, and suddenly everyone was agreeing, because that meant they didn't have to fight a war they were only just introduced to.

Tommi pulled back his lips over those teeth of his, snarling. "Don't you _dare_ say _anything_ of the sort _ever_ again," he growled, his voice suddenly a strong drum of anger, "Not around _me_ at least." He was bristling, his hands clenched at his waist, shuddering with the force of his hatred.

"The Dean is absolutely evil," Caen said, a slow ice to his burn, "And we all know it."

"He has my _mother,_" Tommi hissed, and the room suddenly was silent, the deep, sympathetic quiet that comes from an admittance that no one else can contend with. "He has my sisters too. If I say one wrong thing or step out of bounds _one_ time, he tortures them."

"He has my brother," Caen said, fiddling with her fingernails, "My brother is nine years old."

"He killed Tarrow," Avalon whispered, "And Jason too. They got too close to an answer, too close to the House. Now they're dead."

"So go ahead," Tommi sneered, "Talk about how nice and dandy the world is. But you can go ahead and leave, too. Matter of fact, why don't you just take out those earplugs and join the rest of those kiddies who couldn't stand to think of something outside their comfort zone. Go. Ahead."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable – the silence after a teacher explodes at their class.

The boy with eternity in his bones sighed. "Look," Tommi said wearily, running a hand through his hair, "I know it's a lot to take in. Heck, most of you didn't know why you showed up in the first place. The important part is that you're here now, and I figure you might as well fight."

No one moved.

A girl struggled to the center of the room and hopped on the table. Izzy. She flipped her blonde hair and grinned.

"Well," she said, dusting herself off, "I'm about as confused as the rest of you. But it's been, like, _forever_ since I got to battle. If it's battling against a crazed Dean bent on taking over the world, well, why not? I need the practice."

The others grinned, and then their world exploded.

xxxxxxx

Lily reached for a cupcake, gasped, and tumbled to the floor, clutching her stomach. She was crying.

"It hurts so bad," she whispered, "I wish it would stop."

Cherry just stepped over her and handed out the rest of the treats. So it goes.

xxxxxxx

It was Goliath, his orange body slamming into the wall, his naturally bright body lighting the scene as he grappled with a dark reflection of himself. He craned that lithe neck and snapped at the melting creature, but it had turned it's nothing eyes to the new hole in the building that had exposed the children.

It opened its jaw and set them all on fire.

Oh how they screamed.

X-X

**A.N: So, this was awful. I'm sorry you had to live through this. It was supposed to be the explanation chapter, but it didn't turn out at all the way I wanted it to, and it's super confusing and just all-around really poorly written. Not only that, but it's, what, half a week late? Please hate me for this.**

**If you're wondering how I could suck so badly at writing all of a sudden, it's because most of this was written while dealing with a serious fever. For most of last week, I was literally bedridden with a combination of strep and the flu. Come Saturday, I was feeling much better and said, cool, I'll ignore the doctor's orders and dance all day 'cause it can't be that bad! And then it was. I kinda brought myself back to bedridden-ness and have been riding out a fever of 104. Not only that but for some reason this chapter was really hard for me to write and I don't know why. By the time I was where I wanted to be in it, I figured, what the heck, I'll rewrite it later. It's been too long a wait anyway.**

**Also before you quit entirely with the whole clone thing: recently in our universe, a woman paid 50K to bring her puppy _back from the dead. _The technology exists. You can start feeling scared now.  
**

**Don't worry though. It's actually my vacation week, so I plan on spending it writing the rest of Frost so this never happens again. **

**Yeah, I hated this too. If you are super confused, P.M me and I'll write you a better explanation of what was said here. Alternatively you can just never talk to me again because I have literally committed a sin I cannot fix.**

**Heart out to the people who put up with me, and especially Absh, who stood by me and made me feel better and didn't yell at me even though I was clearly not following specific doctor's orders. **

**Take Care.  
**


	25. Chapter 25

Jazz music spilled over blue-green eyes. She stared up at her white ceiling, watching the dust rotate in the sunlight. She lifted one white hand and watched the shadows she made. Her mother was in the other room, making her dinner, all tight hair and high heels.

_Honey,_ a voice like satin ribbons, _Remember what I told you._

Once upon a time, there was fairy tale where the little girl never gets saved.

xxxxxxx

All she could see in front of her was the swirling remnants of a past summer day, and yet she could sense intrinsically the danger that played before her body: a black jaw, so sunken in misery that it smelled of death, filled with yellowing and broken teeth. She watched it open and the deep copper lunge at them, a furious blaze of impatience. It should have been so beautiful, but something else was kicking in, be it some distant sense of instinct or pure mistake. She was going to die, so she opened her mouth and uttered a word into the din, amidst the screaming and the sulfur fumes. _Go._

A white wall of power rose up against the oncoming heat. She blinked. That attack was nothing in her arsenal – oh. Around her, bodies tense with the natural urge to fight and defend, a group of children stood and commanded their loved ones to fight back the light. She was not alone – nature, nature, nature itself had called out their voices {a hundred of them, a thousand of them, never enough of them} to repel what would have been their end.

Tommi, at the top of his lungs, was screaming for them all to run, to get out, to get back to the campus, they'd been compromised; they were all going to die, summertime. Izzy just smiled and swayed to the sound of jazz music in her head, that wonderful passion of impossibility. Someone grabbed her hand and tugged her out and away, down that slim hallway, out into the cold air where the sound of skin against claws ricocheted into the darkness. '_We have to go,'_ someone shouted at her over the shriek that rose from an orange throat. Still in her eyes the dust danced, one-two-three. Something inside of her stuck, click-clack. Maybe it was the revelation _you're going to die tonight_. The air still smelled like the leather couch under her, the sunbeams in her hair.

'_Izzy,'_ the music sang as she watched Goliath lunge upwards towards his shadow {and thusly his end, his beginning, his Perfect Match} and latched those long claws into a defunct wing, tearing the skin and making the bone flash in the glow of his body. '_Izzy, please. Snap out of it.'_

She turned to the owner of the music and stared at him, all worried blue eyes like he was watching her burn. She was. She was, and she didn't know why. Something was hurting her. It felt so fake.

He grabbed her shoulders and put his forehead against hers. '_I know,'_ deep drum base, '_I'm scared too'._

She blinked and choked back a sob. "I don't want to die," she mumbled, oh strong Izzy, remembering the day that she watched the dust settle and then daddy went missing forever and ever.

"I don't either," Nathan replied calmly, smoothing down her hair, "Which is why we have to get back to campus. Tommi's sending messages out over the psychic web. We'll have a nice fun job to do, and everything will be alright. I promise."

"You promise?" she whispered, but too much of her twisted _didn't daddy promise too?_ Even though she had known – she had – that her father was never coming back. Nathan promised in the future tense and daddy dearest had promised in the past. That was all gone now. She didn't know why it had suddenly surfaced, a great storm in the middle of chaos.

Goliath roared, maybe victory, maybe pain. She couldn't bear to look, flinching as it grated against her ears. Nathan pulled her into a hug, murmuring against her hair, "I promise, I promise." She pressed herself to him and wondered why he made her feel safe.

"Hey guys, what's up?" a cool voice asked, and Izzy jumped back, ashamed, _what was I doing_, hand over her mouth. Nathan watched her movement and his face grew hard, his eyes back to wonder-cold, steel, ice, the _whatever, I don't care_ that hurt her to look at.

She turned. It was Will, a pale-faced Grace behind him. She had her eyes fixed on the battle raging near them, worry in her black-brown eyes. Goliath was winning, but barely. The creature he was up against bore no tactics, no recognizable fighting pattern. It just went for the kill, every time, no matter what that required. White teeth secured around the black neck. No blood, just slime, charcoal ooze from a beast that sounded like metal against granite.

"Well, I don't know about _you_, but I think it was pretty lucky that Tommi got all the explaining done before a giant Charizard blew a hole through our secret base," he smiled, rubbing the top of Lucario's head. "And that enough of us were of sound mind to order a counterattack to the giant flame thing that would have probably killed us all. Not me, of course. I've got a deal with Death. He and I get along, you see."

Grace flinched and made a sound in the back of her throat, but then shook her head. "It's over," she said quietly, "Goliath won." She cast her eyes to the ground and ran her hands through Serafina's coat. "I wish we didn't have to do this," she said, and suddenly Izzy loved no one in the whole world so much as that shivering ball of fake confidence. The blonde reached over and took the thief's fingers, grinning in a wide broken way.

"Me neither. But people are going to get hurt if we don't," she replied, and then squared her shoulders. "Well, _I'm_ done standing around talking while everyone else is fleeing the scene. Let's go get some recently-discovered cruelty-powered clones _dead_," she laughed, and then it was to the fight, to the battle, to a sky over a heather field where two boys lay under makeshift headstones.

xxxxxxx

Tommi waited until everyone else was gone before pulling himself onto the back of a rather sassy Sweet. He did so in a smooth, wonderful motion, his feet in the stirrups and his pokemon next to him. Caen was the only one left after him, and she was right beside him. She sent him a look as he offered his hand.

"I have connections with an Arcanine, you know," she laughed, "I think even Sweet would have trouble catching up with her."

"Would this Arcanine happen to go by the name of Tremble?" he called down, and she shrugged, smiling.

"_May_-be. Why?" She liked this. She liked that he was the captain waiting until the others were gone before boarding his lifeboat. She liked that he had stayed after and done his best to heal Goliath. She liked that he had dealt with the explanation and the whiplash and everything, and yet still had managed to assign everyone a job through his psychic network. She liked especially the way he treated Avalon, that broken little girl, and his ability to fight even after losing his best friend.

"Because I _might_ have had Tremble carry off a certain couple by the name of Kricka," he replied, ever nonchalant, ever the hero, ever dying on the inside.

"Sorry," she said, "Did you just combine 'Mika' and 'Kratch' to make their couple name?" She stared at him as if she thought this was tactless and crude, but she actually thought it was kind of adorable.

"Indeedy-pants," he responded, and bounced his outstretched hand. "Looks like your only choice is to take a ride on the _soul train._"

Under him, Sweet made a note of horror and scratched the dirt with her claw. No way was she being referred to as a disco band. Caen laughed and took that poor boy's palm, pulling herself up and then her pokemon.

"Don't worry," he said to her as Sweet began to run for her takeoff, "I only have a panic attack about how high we are in the most inopportune of times. So we should be fine for a moment or two."

Caen laughed and wrapped her arms around his back, sighing as the beast under her jerked upwards, the crisp fresh air a brief relay from the smell of burning flesh.

She wished she hadn't betrayed them all.

xxxxxxx

"My hands are cold," Will complained, shoving them into his pockets. They'd been walking across the wide expanse of grass that was their campus for a while now, a slow snow-plodding trudge, heading for the nurse's building. Lucario and Izzy's Shiftry had picked up their orders five minutes ago, but after riding through biting wind and now whisking through the snow, their excitement had turned to dull dismissal. The building was in sight, but they still had about a football field of space to cross.

"Are you on your knees, looking for the answer?" Nathan asked, struggling out of a waist-high snow dune. As Grace was the only one with a fire-type beside her, she and Izzy led the charge, both of them pressed as close as they could be to the warmth of Serafina's body. Unfortunately Fina was only a half-type, so she didn't melt the snow as well as the Rapidash had, instead just cutting through the hard upper crust and exposing the boys to snow that caved easily under their body weight. They were dressed for battle, not for freezing. Neither boy was exactly happy.

"I did do my best to notice when the call came down the line," Will replied happily. Now here was a conversation he knew by heart.

"Hey guys," Grace called from in front of them, "Get ready. We see someone coming."

It was true: from across the wide expanse of white, a red glow cut through the darkness. Will tensed for battle, but Lucario shook his head. _Not the worrying that Will feels. Is not bad men. Instead good men friend belong Will. Is large man with darkness and large man with difference. And tall stick man also._ Will sent him a look. "Guys, I think that's Orson, Jarel and…someone else."

"Aster thinks so too," Izzy nodded, "He says they don't have the same orders as we do though."

Within a few minutes, the dark shapes filled out to form the two football players and Sage, looking gloomy and trailing after his Magmar. "Well, hello," Orson called, "That'd be the missus Grace and Izzy and the sirs Nathan and Will, would it not be?"

"Hail," Nathan shouted back, and then blushed. So smooth with the cool words, yeah.

The two groups plodded to meet each other, Orson all smiles to match Will, the darkness in Jarel shadowed in Nathan. The two sets of boys got along spectacularly. Sage just felt marginally out of place, even if he did appreciate the way Grace dressed: all black just made sense.

"This freaking sucks," he muttered, "Everyone else gets a legit job and I get snow-plow for the heroes."

"Sage, we do appreciate your help though," Orson grinned, before turning to the others. "Where ya'll headed? We're out towards the Dean's office, I reckon. We're gonna shut down the device that controls the destination of the pokemon. I'm pretty certain that until we do, any pokemon in their pokeballs will not be able to be called out. In the Silent Hour, the Dean has no reason to hide the fact he controls the pokeballs, because ya'll supposed to be asleep."

"We're headed to the nurse's. Tommi said he'll give us further instructions once we reach it. Are you sure about not being able to call out our pokemon?" Izzy worried, her fingers drifting to her belt. "That means we can't recall them if they get hurt."

"True enough," Orson replied slowly, sadly, "I wish this were easier."

"I sometimes wish I was a Scrabble piece," Will interjected, "But so far that's been unhelpful."

"At least let us make your path easier," Orson said, nodding to Sage. The boy grinned.

"_Finally._ I've been telling you that I have all sorts of fire attacks waiting, but _no_, we'll take the slow way. Magmar can handle it," he promised, and then crouched in front of his beloved. "Ready, buddy?" he murmured, and the creature chirped happily. "Take care of this snow then, yeah?" he commanded.

Instantly its eyes glowed orange with power and a terrible wave of heated air swept past the group. It was too much – the snow melted underfoot, but their skin protested the sudden increase in temperature. They went from standing on white to standing on green, and it unbalanced the boys. The water from the snow evaporated in the force of what was essentially the world's largest, strongest hair dryer. Their path was clear for at least a mile around.

"Thanks," Grace said shyly, looking through her eyelashes to Sage, "That's really helpful. We were getting pretty tired of the snow." He looked away importantly as if it didn't really matter that he was pretty awesome.

"Wow," Will said dryly, "You gave your Magmar a command. Thank Arceus for _you._ Why, it's almost as if we hadn't made any progress without you. How _did _we get on?"

"Will," Izzy said sharply, "Watch it. We can actually get where we were going now. So shut up." She turned to Sage and ducked her head in thanks. "Alright. Good luck on your mission. Send us a message when you get the device dismantled, ok?"

"We'll try," Jarel answered in his gloomy way, "But there's no solid proof that we're not going to die."

"You're not," Izzy laughed, "I promise. Good luck again."

Sage mumbled something about good luck being bad luck, and the group headed away, the happy chatter of Orson tumbling into the distance.

"Alright then," Will grinned, suddenly all happy again, "To the nurse's office?"

xxxxxxxx

"The boy turns and says that they're going to die," Lily murmured from under the table, her sticky fingers tearing the cupcake's wrapper into bits, "And she knows he's not. No, they're not. Another pair of boys falls off into nothing." She looked up and shrieked as a knife bit into the wood next to her. "No fair!" she screamed, scrambling for new cover, "The rules!"

"Screw 'em," Lantana sang happily in that twittering voice, "Made to be broken and all of that." She swirled the next blade around her hand and aimed it at her sister's face.

Lily turned her head to the sounds only she could hear. She was never sure of what she was seeing. Sometimes she was in two places at once and she never knew how. "Not all of them," she whispered, and then smiled in that rainbow way.

xxxxxxx

"As far as we could tell, the device most likely is hidden inside the Dean's office. Of course this creates certain complications along the way, but I'm sure we'll be fine," Orson hummed happily. Sage threw him a dark look.

"You better be right. No way am I just throwing myself into the dragon's den because you had a _feeling_ about where the device was," he spat. Jarel cut his eyes to him dangerously.

"I think," the large boy said in that thick voice of his, "We're working on more than a feeling, Sage. We've only been doing the research on this since the beginning of school. We're easily the most qualified. Calm down."

Sage mumbled something snarky in reply and faced the horizon. Orson made a note in the back of his throat, a startled twinge of discontentment.

"_Language,_ sir. I would ask you not to say such things in the presence of women," he chided darkly, gesturing to the female pokemon, "It's just not done."

"What exactly constitutes bad language for you? Is there a list? Is fu-"

"Yes, on the list," Orson interrupted him, sloshing through the path, "Most certainly on the list."

"How about shi-"

"Oh Mew," Jarel mumbled, "It's gonna be a long night."

xxxxxxx

They faced the doors and took a deep breath.

"Well," Will smiled, "So far, minus almost freezing to death, this hasn't been so ba-"

_Mama,_ something cried, something with the smell of diesel fuel and the sound of a slow fall, of death, of wishing for forgiveness. _Why did you leave me, mama?_

"Do… do you guys hear that?" Izzy said, touching her ear and tilting her head. The others stared at her. "It sounds like… a child, maybe?"

_Mama, mama, why don't you love me?_ The voice was so tangible with sorrow that the blonde swung her head to look for the source.

"Hey, honey, it's ok," she called out into the night, "I'll help you find your mama. Where are you?"

_Right here. We're right here._

The grass before them oozed into ebony, into a long lithe puddle of darkness that twisted and groaned and moved like a demon. Slowly, painfully, it wrenched itself upwards into a semblance of a creature, dripping and melting and dying and crying, so loud in her ears that she thought that she would never be free of it. _Mama, mama, where are you?_

She choked back a sob as she watched the limbs rise and crawl forwards, impossible, falling apart, intangible. She knew the form as well as her own. It was Aster. It was Aster. It was all of her world tearing her apart and a warm day when the police showed up and said _There's been an accident_.

The Shiftry at her hip chirruped, terrified, hiding behind her leg from its slowly sinking mirror image. _Is not a nice black thing, _Aster told her, _Is to smell of a grave._

"It's ok," she breathed, but she didn't know who she was saying it to. "It's going to be ok."

In the darkness something that looked like large boy with a sharp smile moved, and a head tilted slowly to the side as if it could not be supported. The darkness opened its mouth and screamed.

xxxxxxxx

"All I'm saying is that it's mean," Kratch told him, "We're riding on a fire creature. It's not like the snow is going to get us. I feel bad making everyone else walk."

"It's not everyone else, and you're injured," Mika told her. He'd actually be walking too, he knew, if he wasn't aware of the fact that when he got off, Kratch would too.

"I'm not _actually_ injured. I just cut my hand on that stupid blade. It's not even bleeding anymore. It was my fault. I deserve to walk," she retaliated. "Can't we get down?"

"This conversation literally has no end, does it?" Rhyme sighed from behind them. He'd been put on their team by Tommi, and while he'd been initially excited, it turned out being third wheel was fun for no one. Their job was to secure the safety of the students in the cafeteria, not to bicker in a loving way.

"No, we can't get down," Mika said to Kratch, ignoring the poet, "There's too much snow."

"Rhyme's doing fine," Kratch rebutted, whining beautifully.

"Yeah, just fine. Don't offer me a ride, I'll just walk. Good for the legs and stuff," he bit back sharply, staring at the knight, "I'm dandy."

"See, he's fine," Mika said soothingly. "Practically the most chipper I've ever seen him. Stop worrying so much."

"You know something?" Rhyme spat, "I just really do not like you."

xxxxxxxx

"It's just," Tobi said dully, "I feel like we're kinda not doing too good at our mission right now. Not that I want to, you know, be in the way or anything."

"Shut up," Talyn answered testily, and then went back to making out with Davion. If she was going to die, she was going to get some first, and no movie_ nerd_ was going to tell her differently.

xxxxxxxx

Izzy and the others slammed their hands over their ears and cringed away from the note peeling out of the half-born's gaping tear of a mouth. Over the din, Izzy screamed, "I think they know we're here," pointing to a shifting shadow inside the glass doors, returning her palm to the side of her head as quickly as she could. "I'm thinking they sent out our first battle."

"I don't suppose," Will shouted, and then paused as the screech abruptly stopped, "I don't suppose that they could have waited until we're inside where it's warm before this nonsense goes down."

"Is that…" Grace breathed, "Is that _Orson?_"

But no time to think to breathe to wonder if a creature really knew how to feel, just to act. The creature was lurching forwards and gasping as if it never knew what air was, coming out into Seraphina's glow.

"I got this, guys," Izzy hissed, gritting her teeth and shifting into a stable fighting stance. "Don't worry."

"Oh I didn't think that we would even _get_ a chance to battle, honestly," Will said nonchalant, "Not until the author figures out what happened to our character cards."

"What?" Grace asked, staring at him. He shrugged one lithe shoulder as Izzy bared her teeth. The blonde, crazy as she was, intended to attack with her own body first. She had thought of attacking with Aster, but she remembered that once her pokemon were injured, they were pretty much stuck that way until Orson and Jarel took down the device. She was much more prepared to sacrifice herself.

"I've always just had this theory that whomever is writing our life has these little index cards with our names and statistics on them. Heck, a few of them might even have our talents. Whenever something goes in a way that has already happened, I assume the author has dropped the cards and is too lazy to pick them up," Will said, stretching his arms in front of him.

"I dunno," Grace said, "I'm sure it's more like he or she lost the cards and is too lazy to find them," she protested, rolling her shoulder back in its socket until it clicked.

"Noted," Will grinned.

"Oh my Mew," Izzy swore, staring at the now-illuminated figure. It had a sick coloring to it, a filthy almost-peach and it moved as if it were made of tar, sticky, slowly. The arms, thick and horrible, swung low before the torso, and the legs stopped at the knees. But it was the neck: a curling, tumultuous coil that twisted and curled and danced as if it was a tail, it was the neck that made the creature oh so unforgivable, horrible, two eyes and loaded dice.

Without thinking, Izzy attacked. The blonde aimed for the monster's neck with a swift kick, but she wasn't alone. To her right and left, two small children darted for the ribs, cracking them soundly. Grace took one slippery arm and snapped it backwards while Will took the other and broke the wrist. Izzy landed and stared at them as the shadow of Orson click-roared in pain. She frowned over the sound and put her hands on her hips, promising some part of herself that the creature was not self-aware, and thusly could not hate them for their attacks.

"What part of 'I got this' was unclear?" she snarked, "I could'a taken him out on my own."

The creature was sick-snatch wheezing again, and Will kicked it expertly in the place where its solar plexus should have been located. "Yeah," he snorted, "I was just gonna watch as all the fighting classes I've had over the past year just clambered to be used."

Izzy glared at him and then swung her eyes accusingly to Grace, who shrugged. "Sorry, instinct," the thief replied, and then tilted her brunette head at Nathan. "Why didn't _you_ move?" Maybe it was accusatory, who knew.

Nathan's ice eyes got very wide. "She told me not to…?" he guessed, but it had mostly been because he had no idea the other two were going to attack. They had just been standing there talking about something stupid and _bam_, fists of fury. What, did they have some psychic connection or something? Izzy, in response to his shyness, flashed him a brilliant white smile and he melted a little on the inside. A little. Maybe.

The creature creaked back to the shadows in front of the Nurse's office, slipping inside the doors with patient ease.

"Well then," Will said, "I guess that wasn't _so_ difficult. The next clone we just need to bite or something." He clapped his hands together and stepped towards the looming building.

"I hate you so much right now," Izzy stated blandly, "Everyone knows that saying something like that only leads to a horrific chance to mess everything up, or a terrible encounter, or a group of enemies we have no way of defeating."

Will stopped at the glass and peered through it, cupping his hands against the light inside. "Yeah," he breathed, "I guess so, huh?"

xxxxxxxx

"How about cu-" Sage offered, tilting his head ponderously to one side.

"_Sir_," Orson snarled, "That is most _definitely_ on the list."

"What?" the boy in black blinked. "Oh. _Oh._ No, I wasn't going to say _that_. I was going to say Cullen. I don't know, his name always sounded like a swear to me. _Wow, _you've got a mind in the gutter."

"Well, at this point," Orson muttered, "It does seem like you've been through everythin' _else._"

The Dean's office was a towering behemoth in the distance, aching out into the skyline.

"Uhm," Jarel said in that soft whisper, "Are those…clones?"

The ground looked like it was lurching to life, bucking its skin and howling as it cleft.

"No fu-" Sage started, but he darted his eyes to Orson and fixed his language, "No flippin' way. Not so soon. We're barely at the entrance."

But it had to be: little creatures tumbling at heel, tall sickly stick people with no eyes and no way of knowing anything but pain.

Sage was frozen. He was staring at a girl in the middle with a white dress and black hair, her skin the same paper-yellow as it had always been. She was blindfolded, just as she should be. "I know her," he whispered, staring at her bare feet, so pink against the snow, "I've dreamt of her."

She stood there and her dress fluttered in the breeze, and Sage thought he had never seen someone look so alone: her plastic mask over her mouth a tangible representation of her inability to ever be free.

_Hello_, she said to him, leaning into the wind as her little army of {children, it was always children, why couldn't everyone fight when they're old enough to die, never, childhood is the age where the sun shines, just scared little children always} sorrowed shadows crawled to their standing positions, grinning in their slack-jawed way, _I'm sorry about this._

And maybe she was.

xxxxxxx

Thompson yawned and stared at the safe's dial. "Nope, not Charlotte's birthday. What's next on the list?" he asked, and Felix flipped through the papers.

"Are you sure you did all sevens?" the magician asked desperately, only to have his friend send him a violent glare. That had been the first thing they'd tried. It wasn't that, and it wasn't all twenty-sevens, either.

They were in the far back of the library, surrounded by chaos. The shelves were upended and there were books coating the floor in the saddest possible waste of words, and the light hummed orange-yellow. They'd finally found the safe inside a window–seat after prying the boards apart, and they sat in the glow of the moon, the night blue around them, trying to snatch a treasure they'd never seen. Tommi was pretty positive it was the battle plans for the Dean, but Caen thought it might be something else instead, something stupid. She was not for the mission at all. She thought that it was putting their best and brightest in harm's way for no good whatsoever. But then, that was true of everyone.

"First of all," Thompson sighed, shifting his weight, "We both know the last number is twenty-seven. Well. We're pretty sure, because Jason said so. So no more with the all-sevens obsession, ok?" He shouldn't have been so angry, but he had been lying on one side with an ear pressed against the door for the past forever. He was getting frustrated. They had tried everything under the sun: prime numbers, staff birthdays, _their _birthdays, holidays. Nothing was working. The black box just squatted there unhappily, fat and unpleasant, an unyielding creature of the bog.

"Try oh-seven, oh-one, twenty-seven, like a superhero trying to bite a flower," Felix purred.

Thompson, as used as he was to his friend's strange similes, paused and sent him a look, _what are you _on _right now?_ Felix shrugged. It had been a long day. He wasn't in the metaphor-making mood.

The hand spun, swish swish swish, seven, swish swish, one, swish, twenty-seven. Thompson perked up. "Mate," he grinned. It was the first time he had heard something that sounded even a little like a tumbler clicking into place.

He went through the same motions over and over and over, until Felix almost started talking to Spiral, just to fill up the silence. She was crouched on top of one of the turned-over bookshelves, balancing perfectly and smiling at him, do-you-remembers spilling from her lips.

Finally Thompson moved, groaning and stretching out his arm. "I think I got it. The click definitely happens at the one, so I'm thinking that that's the first number. The next one is then the only one we don't know," he grinned, sitting up and cracking his neck, closing his eyes and smiling.

"Oh good," Felix said dully, "We've narrowed it down to only one hundred possibilities."

"We do have all night," Thompson laughed, "And besides, it is better than chasing clownish clones all over the place. I have better things to do than wonder if that freak over there has my face."

"Remember when it was my birthday?" Spiral whispered over Felix's chuckle, "We had cake and the balloons were shaped like stars." He didn't respond: of course he remembered, but he didn't say anything. Her birthday tasted like pink icing and a princess party, too-sweet lemonade and cartwheels on the front lawn, and a thin pair of lips in the form of his mother.

"Wait, actually," Felix gasped, "What number did you say went through?" But it was a rhetorical question – he knew, he just figured it was worth narrating some facet of his actions. He flipped through the papers, all of the information they could dredge up on every student that could possibly be connected to the Dean. Six people fit, but it was one in particular that made him bite his lip.

"It can't be," he breathed, and then said louder, "Try zero-one, zero-six, twenty-seven," he told his friend, and the white hand met the black beast, around and around and around.

It clicked open. Thompson, startled, sent him a look. "How did you know?" he wondered.

"It's her birthday. It's Grace's birthday," Felix murmured, staring at the partially opened door, cogs and wheels burning in his head.

"Oh, well that's fun," someone said, and they both whipped their heads around. A boy with black eyes pulled on a pair of black gloves, shaking his black hair and showing off his ohtoowhite teeth. "Sorry to mess up the party, but I'm done hosting."

A girl stepped out from the stacks and sent him a look, pulling on her own gloves and shifting her shoulders. She gave them an apologetic look and said, "Don't worry. This will hurt much less than his jokes."

Spiral just laughed.

**x-x**

**A.N: BAM on time and long and action-y! Woo! Also with lyrics that aren't mine!  
**

**Next chapter will be dynamic and awesome I hope. :)**

**Love to my Hiro. He beta'd again. He's mostly just there to be like, "um...no...that's actually 'said' not 'sad,' but really good effort!" And one day I will be as beautiful a person as he is, because he shines like the sun. Also he is married to me, so :)**

**Dear, those that made it through Chapter 24: wow I really just can't express how much you mean to me. :) Thanks so much for standing by me. I will try to do right by you in the next chapter.**

**Take care.  
**


	26. Chapter 26

The room was empty, lit only by a clean fluorescent glow that glanced off the marble tiles. A woman with copper hair stared at the flat screen of a computer on the surface of her desk, typing away. There wasn't a shadow in sight.

"I mean," Will laughed, "It's that huge waiting room. It just _looks_ like it could take me."

Izzy tsked and swatted him, pushing open the doors, the others following behind here. She called out to the woman, but there was no response – just the click clack motion of plastic nails on glass. The blonde strode ahead with that perfect self-reliance that bred in her bones. She smiled wanly at the clearly hard-of-hearing human and batted her blue-green eyes. "Hey there," she said cheerily, "Sorry to interrupt. But…"

"Please give me your name and dorm number," the woman said in a charcoal tongue, not looking up.

"Ah…Izamina Tessman? I'm in dorm…" she trailed off as the nurse extended one rake-like hand, skinny and curved.

"Deposit your pokemon before continuing, if you please," metallic. She tasted like a broken bracelet.

"Actually… Ah, I…?" Izzy tried, but the claw in front of her face bounced in annoyance.

"Fine, if you don't want to, I won't make you," the smoke woman sighed impatiently, "Oh also I would recommend looking behind you," the nurse said, clicking her tongue as if they were all stupid. Izzy whipped around. They were surrounded by the mirror images of students. She choked back a scream.

Grace stared at the place where the nurse had been. She had disappeared.

xxxxxxxxx

"Look," Sage said over the noise of a linebacker and a quarterback tackling a horde of struggling bodies, "We don't _mean_ anything by trespassing. Can't we all just get along?" He ducked as a beautiful white Energy Ball soared over his head and smashed into a clone creature's face. It burst in brilliant black. He sighed. "I guess not then."

He strode past where Jarel's Smeargle was slamming a burning fist into a stomach and slid up to where the girl was standing, her raspy breaths luring him to the center of the field.

"Who are you?" he asked, and she slid her night sky eyes to him. The answer was somewhere inside of him, but he couldn't reach it. Suddenly something clicked into place – he knew _exactly_ who she was. He gasped and pulled back. "_You?_"

Something grabbed his ankle, and the next thing he knew, he had his face in the grass and blood in his eyes.

xxxxxxxxx

They were surrounded: everywhere was movement and noise. Already the four were being separated from each other in the chaos. Izzy choked back a scream as a grey-paper hand clutched desperately at her. She closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath before calling, "Aster, Razor Wind around us. We've got to stay together."

The Shiftry grunted in response and lowered his center of balance before unleashing a green wall of sharp leaf blades. The four were momentarily within their own little dome of wind, and it gave them enough time to focus themselves. They had been forced into the middle of the room. "Ok, Grace," Izzy said, "You go and get to the desk. There'll be the reference data in there, and we can complete our mission using it. We probably will have to hack it, but it shouldn't take too long."

"_Me?_" Grace squeaked, "Why me?"

Izzy put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. The green dome was faltering. Aster was strong, but he couldn't hold a full-power attack for very long. "Look, I hate to be harsh, but we all know that Tabbot won't fight, and Fina on her own won't get very far. You're also the most nimble of us and whatever. As much as I hate to admit it, you're also our best fighter. So get to the desk. Will can help you when you get there. The rest of us will run damage control. Ready?" She glanced to her friends. For a second, just a second, they all looked like warriors. Nathan's glass eyes held hers and he nodded to her.

"Whenever you're ready," he said. He was so calm. She was envious of that cool demeanor. He was envious of the people who had fallen asleep. The entire thing was pretty much doomed to fail.

"Ok, then. After I give the signal, attack. Remember that we can't withdraw pokemon until we get the ok from Jarel and Orson." She drew a shaky breath and laughed. "And in case I die, tell David Tennant that I love him," she grinned. The others flashed her a smile, but she was only watching for Nathan's reaction. He snuck a hand over and took her fingers in his palm. She squared her shoulders. "On my mark: three…two…"

And then the dome fell to a mass of bodies and shriveled creatures. It was all noise again. "Make a path for Grace," Izzy screamed over the din, "Hold the circle and start moving towards the desk!" She cut herself off as something lunged for her face, but a slice of charcoal power forced it against the ground: Nathan's Murkrow. She sent him a thankful look, but he just tilted his head towards the howling mob as if to say, _Whatcha gonna do?_

She steadied herself and let her mind clear into a battle cleanliness. What looked like an embittered and disheveled version of Sage ordered forwards a tar-orange Gastly. She motioned to Galileo and he positioned himself to attack, his pink skin glossing over with the sheen of his Iron Tail. She watched the calculations in his eyes, the way he waited for exactly the right moment before whipping around and slamming into his opponent, the sound of metal on flesh lost in the constant wail of the tormented. Izzy congratulated her team's leader quietly and gritted her teeth. It was going to be a hard night.

Nathan was snarling in that way he had. Someone had gotten their fangs around him and he could feel blood slinking out of his shoulder. His Haunter worked perfectly in tandem with his Murkrow, but he was beginning to feel that that the odds were not in their favor. They were making slow process to the desk, but Grace still hadn't been able to slip into the crowd yet and fight her way over. He whistled sharply and Akira sang back before executing a perfect Wing Attack against a monster, her body a slick disaster. He peered at her an idea formed slowly. She knew Mist. If he could cover Grace, then the brunette could get to the desk and find the information they needed and open the door that led to the rest of the building. It had to work, but first he had to get Akira where he needed her, and from the way that things were swatting at her, he figured that it might take some time.

"Oh man oh man oh man oh man," Will panted. Lucario had sent a fierce Psychic towards his opponent, but it wasn't enough still. Plus he was going crazy trying to protect Grace while not making it obvious he was protecting her. Serafina was doing pretty well, he figured, but Grace's one pokemon just wasn't enough. _If only_, Will thought to Lucario, _She was named Mary Sue. Then she'd have a shiny Eevee that was the most powerful pokemon, ever._

_Will worries the amount unhealthy,_ Lucario laughed back, _And Lucario must remind Will that not _all_ persons are cousin belong Will._ He paused and spun around, slamming his hard forearm into a body in a fantastic Drain Punch.

"Mary's a jerk but she's powerful," Will said aloud, and Grace shot him a look. Not being tapped into their private psychic network, she had heard none of the context. To her, he was spouting nonsense. He blushed and mumbled a Toxic attack for Slash before he could embarrass himself further.

At that point Nathan shouted his plan to Grace, leaving Will hating himself. _He_ should have been the one to think of something like that. He was the photographer. Photographers beat writers every day. Well, he admitted to himself, not _literally,_ but…

Akira keened joyously and dipped her wings before leaving the battlefield covered in a thick fog centered around the artist. For a moment there was only the sound of cries cut short and blows landings, and then the cloud cleared and Grace was standing behind the desk, her eyes wide and dark. "Oh man oh man oh man," she breathed, tapping the glass surface tentatively as if it was a beast she had to wake up. "What…um?"

The other three shifted so they were all back-to-back, fighting with everything they had. They beat back the darkness with flashes of light, already worried for the sake of their pokemon. Will's Scizor was a red blur as he glimmered with a Swords Dance before unleashing an X-Scissor and demolishing his opponent. Although he looked like he could stand to take a few more hits, he was panting. Will frowned at the state of Slash and called to Grace, "Do you see the folder on the desktop?"

"Uh…" Grace fidgeted, and then absently punched some kid out, "No. I…um…I don't know how to turn it…on?" The screen remained black, the reflections of her friend's attacks echoing in the glass. Serafina was holding a perimeter, but her movements were slowing. Tabbot just pressed himself against Grace's legs and snarled, his black lips pulling over long teeth, the rumble of his growl a deep thunder base.

Will sent the brunette an incredulous look. "You don't know _how to turn it on?_" he half-screeched. There was no way that any of the rest of them could get across the river of tormented bodies like she had. No one really matched her in gymnastic training, except for maybe Izzy, but it wasn't likely that the two boys would hold up against the rest of the shadows on their own. They were all struggling as it was. "You…ok." He sighed and watched as Lucario made a hole through someone's stomach with a powerful Aura Sphere. "Touch all four corners at once. If that doesn't work, just put both your palms on opposite sides. Tell me when you get that to work."

"Oh goodness," Grace panicked, "Fighting I can handle, but no, let's make _me_ be the technology one," she mumbled. She tried the four-corner tactic and the screen flickered into life. She paled. "It's locked…with…a password." Serafina let out a frightened yip, rolling onto her back as something sank into her forepaw, her eyes rolling with pain. The Houndoom snapped back at the bleak Ninetails, successfully latching onto the back of the copy-creature's neck with a fierce Crunch. But the damage was already done: blood seeped from her leg. Grace made a noise of worry and fluttered her hands awkwardly over the computer. She had no idea what to do.

Lucario tumbled backwards in the force of a Solar Beam to his chest. Will caught the blue body and held it protectively, giving his partner moments to catch his breath. "Alright Grace, you've got to hurry up. We're dying out here. Look around. The password is probably written down somewhere, and if it isn't, try the obvious ones." He paused as she shot him a frightened look. He sighed. "You don't know how to type on those computers, do you?" She shook her curly hair furiously, ashamed. The blush that settled across her face made him forgive her instantly. Well. _Mostly_ forgive her. "There should be a little keyboard icon at the bottom. Tap it and then type."

Izzy let out a whine as talons clawed into her face. She slapped a hand over the wound instinctively and swung her leg out to send the copy away. Aster was tiring quickly, and there was a long, bloody mark spreading over Galileo's back. Nathan beside her kept angling his body so that he would take the blows instead of Izzy, and it was showing. Akira, capable of staying out of the way, was doing pretty well, but Keno was trembling from the force of his effort. Keno had never been the fighter, he'd been the friend. He was largely untrained, and it was showing. Although he was able to evade most attacks because he was not corporeal, the bodies that lunged through him were slowly tearing him apart.

Grace made a small, desperate noise and followed the instructions. She searched her area while trying every password she could think of. It wasn't "Password" or "EvilDeanIsEvil" or "Nurse'sOffice," but she caught sight of a post-it note on the inside of a drawer that had the words "_Daily Password_" scrawled on it. She grinned in relief. Sure she still sucked at technology, but her ability to find things was up and running. She figured she would be a pretty terrible thief if she couldn't locate that which was supposed to be hidden. She carefully typed in the random set of numbers and letters and pulled back uncertainly as the desktop opened. She stared at the array of files and sang a few shaky notes of a lullaby.

"Look for a folder named something like 'Patients' or 'Students' or something," Will told her patiently as he supported Lucario. The blue fur was smearing with red, and the psychic web connection between them was flickering. It didn't look good. Lucario pulled a warm ball of energy out of nowhere and shot it towards an oncoming beast, but it missed and hit the ground. Will grimaced, but Akira swooped in with a thick purple Pursuit and tore out a throat. It didn't matter: where one had fallen, another stepped forwards. Grace had to hurry up or else there would be no hope at all.

"Oh dear oh goodness oh gracious," she stuttered, "I don't see…Oh! Oh, I think I found it, but I don't know. I just tap it?"

"_Grace!_" Nathan snarled, "Stop questioning what to do and just _do_ it," he was holding his left arm, and from the way it was all akimbo, it was probably broken, but it had been the difference between having Izzy alive and having her funeral. The blonde was bleeding badly from her cheek, and she was surprised how light-headed she felt. Aster was pretty much down for the count, but he still pressed on. Galileo was down to relying on evasive tactics. Izzy was pretty sure she would have burst into tears if it hadn't been for the hard wall of Nathan's body beside her, warm and reassuring.

"No need to be rude," Grace muttered to herself, bouncing her finger against the screen, "It's not _my_ fault the rest of you can't fight for anything...We can't _all_ be tech-savvy nerds." She dragged up the keyboard and called over the din, "What am I looking for?"

Nathan closed his eyes impatiently. "Ike Rend, Grace, search for Ike Rend. Were you not listening at _all _to our instructions?" She sent him a dangerous look and just for a moment, standing there in blood and fire and chaos, he saw the girl he had fallen in love with so long ago: someone so filled with darkness and self-hatred and sheer hopelessness that she matched him in every way. But beside him moved a flower child of harmony and happiness, someone who would grant him salvation. He thought, idly, what a funny world this was. Everyone will fall for a demon when an angel is right beside them.

"Right. Oh-_kay_ then. Select – no, not that – ah _ha – _keyboard – no, _keyboard_ – search. Search. Search…I-K-E…R-E-N-D…and _enter," _she sang to herself, staring at the screen. "He was here three months ago," she read to her friends, "It says 'Transferred to C106' and then there's nothing after that." She stared at the incident report and made a sad noise. "They must have taken his pokemon and never given them back. That's not good."

"It's a place to start," Will panted. A cut had opened in his hairline and blood was sweeping down his face. He swiped at it in a vaguely annoyed manner. Grace pulled her eyes to the rest of the damaged team and pawed through the desk's drawers, hoping for at least some bandages. "Grace, open the door behind you and get us through. Don't bother about the pokemon. We wouldn't be able to get them out of their pokeballs anyway, not until Orson and Jarel get what they're doing done," the photographer ordered. She scurried to follow his instructions as he fired them at her, strangely submissive. The golden metal behind her cracked open.

"Tabbot," she begged, "_One_ attack? For mommy?" she asked, but he just shuddered and pressed against her. She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. Serafina could blow a clear line through the crowd, but she would be out after that. Tabbot had some serious power in him, but he refused to use it. She wished for the first time in her life that she had a different lead.

"Alright, honey," Grace whispered, "We're in a hospital. No way that we won't find something to make you feel better after this," she said to Fina, who was limping and had her tail between her legs. "Sing for me, and then a full-power Flamethrower, on my mark." She called for her friends to cover their ears and signaled to her Houndoom.

Instantly a cry went up, a terrible twirl of feathered notes, music made from suffering and silence. It was a keen so tangible that it vibrated through bones. The pokemon who were out dropped down in pain, adding their cry to the noise. Serafina's terrible tune struck through their hearts, and she was about to do worse. She leveled herself and sucked in a large breath, lighting hatred in the back of her throat. Golden tumbling flame spiraled outwards, destroying a narrow path for the three children to make their way through, tugging along their immobilized pokemon. They vaulted the desk and slid inside the doors, slamming their hands against the screen to close them.

The metal clanged shut and their ears rang with the tremble of silence.

xxxxxxxx

"Ok so -" she looked up from her instructions and choked on her words, hissing and pulling one hand up to her eyes as if she was cringing from empty calories. "_Wow,_ guys, sorry I interrupted your…sex. Or whatever _that_ is," Mimi snarked, pursing her lips. They were in a small alcove, away from the snow but still outside. Tobi sent the girl in blue a helpless look. He waved his hands towards them, flopping his limbs desperately.

"I- but- the- t- they- I- _I tried to stop them," _he blurted. "But then that…that… that _wench_ actually _hit_ me." He knew Mimi from his Stats class, but he didn't really want her to meet his best friend like this.

"Slow down there, Superman. I don't think you really want to admit a girl took you down." She grinned lopsidedly, staring at where Talyn had pressed Davion up against a wall and was pretty much going down on him.

"_She hit me_," he repeated sharply, "I didn't even know people _did _that." He gestured some more and groaned. "I don't know how to make it _stop,"_ he whined.

Mimi's face cracked in a wonderful grin and she hitched her belt up. This, she could take, plus floundering boy was actually kind of cute. "Hey, Talyn," she sang sweetly, "You are aware that you look fat when you do that, right?"

Instantly the blonde killer sat straight up, gasping. "_What?_" she hissed, "Tobi, why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I-?"

"How long have you known and not _said _anything?" she demanded, but didn't wait for him to answer, pulling down her shirt fiercely. She flipped her hair, stomping her way across the snow. A shadow leapt out to challenge her and she punched it in the face, ranting something about fat.

"I'm Mimi. I was sent to help out your team, since I got none of my own," she offered, shaking hands with the slack-eyed Davion. Even covered in lipstick smears he looked relatively unaffected.

"This is Davion," Tobi said for his friend, "The only reason he made out with her is because she asked him to. He doesn't talk much. He's actually the spawn of a mime and a circus clown." At that, the model deadpanned a pretty good impression of holding a runaway kite, staggering towards Talyn's path.

"He says we should get going," Tobi monotone, "And possibly something about his six-pack."

"It _is_ delicious," Mimi admitted thoughtfully, staring at his unbuttoned shirt, "But should he be worried about the cold?"

Davion just sneezed.

xxxxxxx

When he was younger, he stole into the kitchen late at night and quietly made himself a bowl of whipped cream. The shadows were dancing across the hardwood and he hadn't meant for it to happen, but there was no ice cream left and he needed something sweet to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid. He just sat there and slowly ate from the bowl with his cold silver spoon, staring at nothing.

His mother found him later, but instead of punishing him, she just took out her own bowl and set down to eat as if midnight snack runs were the most normal thing ever.

Then she turned to him and said, _I'm dying._

xxxxxxx

They followed in the path that Talyn was making kind of happily. Mimi and Tobi got along pretty well, and Davion was too busy being hot to really cause a disruption. They were halfway across to where they were headed before she showed up.

She was wearing all white and had a breathing mask over her mouth. She was different than any clone they had encountered: something spoke from her eyes. But as soon as they saw her, something else walked through her – an aging woman in a nurse's outfit, her thick grey hair back in a braid.

"Hey, guys," she smiled, "The teachers sent me. They're out fighting their own fights, so they suggested I go and check up on you all. I'm Sandy," she grinned, "And I'm here to make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"Wonderful," Talyn snarked, "Like we couldn't have survived without you." She whipped around and slammed her fist into a shadow's stomach before slicing its head off with a spare blade. Talyn was actually just boss.

"Well," Sandy chuckled, "I know that if you're going to the cafeteria, it's a waste of your time. You're looking for the members of staff that were part of the resistance, right?" She waited until she got an affirmative nod before beckoning with her hand, her silver fingernails catching in the moonlight. "They're actually in the dorms, guys. You got bad information."

"Sweet," Tobi nodded, "Lead away."

She chatted to them as they trudged in their new direction. She was part of the staff that hadn't fallen into step with the Dean's plans. Some of the nurses, of course, were the first to change sides. They saw too many kids die to stand for it. After some discussion, it was muddled out that she was actually the one that had treated Grace, Will, and Mimi. She talked about her first years at Frost, before she discovered the corruption and the way the Dean controlled the upperclassmen. She spoke about staying just for the children, because she couldn't stand the idea that they were going without help.

"And then…" she laughed, finishing her story and pulling the door open for them to pass through, "He claimed to be a teapot!"

The teens laughed and shuffled into the wide foyer of the dorm room, chatting amongst themselves and sending grateful looks to Sandy. The dorms were warm, and after Tommi had knocked a hole in the wall, the cafeteria would be freezing.

"_Stop!_" someone screamed from behind them. She was panting and supporting herself on the doorframe. The boys gave her a look. Caen sucked down air and hissed, "She's a traitor. I know it."

Instantly Sandy's face turned to stone. "And how is that?" skin slipping over teeth, "Are you psychic?"

"No, but I knew someone who was," Caen replied, a smile chasing around her lips, "And if he was here, he'd have killed you by now."

"Seriously though," Tobi said slowly, confused, "What's the matter?"

"Her fingernails," Caen breathed, pointing, "Her fingernails are silver-blue."

"Oh that really matters," the woman spat, "You know how often nail polish determines a person's standings."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Caen bit back, "Because I used to be one of you."

"She's right," a soft voice, gentle, sweet. Avalon stepped from the shadows, but the shadows never left her eyes.

"Oh, so you're willing to admit you sided with the Dean, and yet you expect us to, what, instantly agree with you?" Sandy snarled. "Well, excuse me if I regretfully decline."

"She's better now," Avalon answered quietly, "I helped her get out."

"And who are _you?_" rage, fire, help-me desire.

"I'm just Avalon," she replied, and then closed her eyes before whispering, "_They're coming._ You called them and now they're coming."

The woman's entire façade dropped instantly. She just tilted her head until it cracked and then melted into the shadows. From where she had stood, as if by magic signal, the room flooded with bodies and boils. Avalon slipped her hands into her pockets and nodded to the door to the broom closet, the closest place to hide. "You guys get in there. Give me fifteen minutes and then come get me. I should have gotten us a way out by then." Despite their protests, she ushered them inside, the knob clicking with a sense of finality.

She whispered, "_Take me, then_," and then her screams echoed through the darkness.

Caen started to cry.

xxxxxxx

Once upon a time a little girl sat in bed and waited for her daddy to come in and tell her a story of a Once Upon A Time. She was in a white pretty nightdress and she had tucked herself against her great big green pillow and she was the most perfect angel in the entire world for her papa. Soon he showed up and said, Would you like to know something about yourself? And she didn't, but he looked like she needed to know. Why, honey, you're not really daddy's little girl. She didn't understand, because she had always been daddy's little girl. Daddy was hic-hic-hic and torture voices, he was bright cherry red with the color of a sun. No, Papa, she smiled, Don't be silly. He wasn't, because that dead look like a broken wall clock was in his eyes. He was her ending. You're the daughter of some other half-breed that your mama did, you aint no pride rock of mine.

Daddy, she pressed against the pillow, Daddy don't say those things.

He just laughed.

xxxxxxxx

The minutes – carefully timed on Caen's watch – dragged by in the sounds of horror, of beatings, of nothing. Then silence, terrible, endless, perfect. Nothing. Just nothing. Caen slowly opened the door, already sinking her teeth through her lip, frightened of what she would see.

It was just Avalon, standing in the middle of a mass of bodies, looking perfectly peaceful as she bounced something in her hand. Tobi sent her an awed look and wondered, "What _are_ you?"

She smiled and dripped her weapon of choice from her palm: a single silver yoyo.

xxxxxxx

The funny part, he thought, was that it wasn't all that funny. They were beating back shadows with nothing but sticks. Sage was down for the count. They had to drag his body to the wall of the Dean's building, and his face was all scratched up. It turned out the combined efforts of two football talents could make a crowd part pretty easily, but now they were cornered. The doors weren't opening, and the circle of howling bodies didn't seem too much like they felt like throwing a tea party.

"Jenna," Jarel said softly to his Larvitar, "Please, if you feel up to it, Rockslide for us." The scaled creature shifted and grunted her agreement. The ground instantly trembled as her eyes lit golden with concentration. From the very bowels of the Earth, rocks tore their way out and up, pounding against the oncoming attackers relentlessly. Dust and debris filled the air, clouding them for a moment, letting them get their backs against the metal doors.

"Ursula's been Slashing at that door for five minutes without a scratch," Orson grumbled to his partner, "It doesn't look good. I suggest we try a window." His Teddiursa was already panting and she hadn't even fought yet.

"Guys?" Sage mumbled, "Is this the real life?"

The two football players cut their eyes to him. Maybe he'd banged his head too many times. It wasn't as if they had dragged him gently. "Yeah," Orson told him, "Don't mind us much though. We're just going to mosey along this wall until we get to a window, sir," he promised.

"It's ok," Sage murmured, "The girl told me it would be ok."

"I'll…I'll be sure to thank her then," Orson chuckled. He didn't know what else to do. "Bardo, start clearin' us a path. Energy Ball if you would."

A white beam of light.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Daddy didn't take to drinking too well, or at least that's what she promised herself. Daddy was just angry because mama did something real stupid when mama was younger and angry and now baby gots to pay for it like a big girl does. She don't know about that, about what her mama did, but she know it stings at her papa and that's why he hurts her. He is showing her what he feels by making her feel the inside of her cheek bleeding. She doesn't tell anyone at school because she's just a down-South hick girl and it's too much to really fit in as it is. She got them bruises by riding her bike like the big fool she is. She doesn't think that word is so bad any more, not since daddy came home that one night. He taught her lots of new words and all of them stung. She hated them then. Words only bit-bat-bite at you until all you could feel was the weight of tears in your chest. It don't take much to cry, it's the not crying that's the hard bit. It's the waiting for him to just off-the-roof explode.

She promised herself that Papa is the best daddy and it was her own fault for making him hurt so bad, and maybe she believed that until one day she was a teenager and Papa went out and left behind a friend of his that smelled like rubbing alcohol and plastic chords who said, Imma teach you what it means to be a woman.

So maybe that's what he did, she never knew. She just cried and cried and cried and when he left she cleaned up all the evidence and then threw up until her sides couldn't heave any more. She slunk down next to the white basin of the toilet, pressing her forehead against the wall and she sobbed until nothing was left in her at all, and she was so empty that she could feel how raw and filled with disgust she was. She showered and scrubbed at her skin until she bled and she couldn't stop feeling dirty and old and ugly, broken and such a terrible daughter, mind still whirling like she was stuck in a pane of glass.

She stared at the ceiling and thought, What have I done?

xxxxxxxx

"I'm glad we found some bandages," Grace murmured. They'd been patched up pretty well, considering, but they were still moving too slowly, too slowly. They were three floors up and padding down the hallway until the door read C106 in bronze letters. They pushed it open tentatively, expecting horror or evil or hatred. Instead they found nothing but an empty room with a steel door at the far wall, sulking across at them.

"Sorry, baby, but Hyper Beam," Izzy told Aster, who sent her a pained expression. He was already running on low, and a Hyper Beam wasn't exactly in his arsenal of perfected moves. He click-clicked in the back of her throat and took a long slow breath.

It shot carelessly out of his maw and blasted a significant amount of the door, missing some and singeing the wall instead. There was a large black hole where metal used to be. Izzy just smiled and rubbed Aster's ears, feeding him a treat. "Good boy," she complimented her partner. "Let's go."

"Don't you think it would have made more sense to see if the door was even locked before we pulled out the big move?" Will wondered, approaching it, slipping his sleeve over his hand so he could open it without it burning him. Izzy blushed and shrugged. Grace slid past her into a room she could never forget.

Rows and rows of golden liquid, bodies suspended like sunlight in the rye.

xxxxxxxx

"Look!" She smiled in that red-sinner kind of way, that real two-tone gaudiness that made his heart drop, "They're so cute," she cooed. She was wearing something real slutty, not even pretending she cared anymore. Whatever.

He was polishing a gun while picking his teeth. "Babe," he said, single-word love in a magic potion bottle. The leftovers from his meal were still out and spilling steam into the sky: real Charizard with just a nice fresh baste of Pikachu. Pricey but nice.

"_Babe_," she repeated back to him. "But soon they'll find out! And then they'll die."

"Try not to be disappointed."

She never was.

xxxxxxx

_Ready or not, here I come_, the words against her lips like butterscotch. She can't see but her brain is twisty like silk and all full of running. She was a lantern, a lighthouse, lots of different people. "Don't worry, babe," she whispered, "I've got you." Hello, voices, where have you been? I've been to the market to buy me a queen, Siroi Lily with pretty pink petals, I've been to the market and I bought myself a pair of eyes as dandy as the midnight skies. Tweet tweet tapping she can see the battle but it is fists that are flailing.

"Bell's out. Columbine trapped her in a closet," Cherry swings by to say, because she followed the rules one hundred percent, "Lantana's looking for you." And then her footsteps went away and it was empty again, heartbreaking, crystal mines, lines in nowhere, no, just what you're used to.

In her mind, there is a girl in the middle of an empty stage, facing an audience that doesn't exist. She is playing the cello in sweet white spotlight, coiling and swaying to music like it was keeping her alive. She plays a hymn and a battle cry. Only Lily could hear her so only Lily murmurs: "I know you," the words like resin in the sky.

xxxxxxxx

"I know you," Thompson snarled, standing up and facing the pair, "You killed Tarrow."

"I should imagine you had a part in Jason's death too," Felix growled, his arms across his chest and his eyes narrow.

"Actually," Eilsa drawled, "I haven't killed anyone in, like, forever." There were weapons strapped to her and a headphone in one of her ears like she couldn't be bothered to pay full attention. By her side, her Riachu's cheeks were sparking one-two blitz-blue. "So maybe, I don't know, lay off the attitude?" she grinned.

"You're looking for me," Jacob said darkly, "I killed your friend." But then, he'd killed himself, too, so it was getting hard to keep track. Beside him, Feather was licking his yellow paw nonchalantly as if he had no idea of the tension that was building. "And I'm about to kill you too."

"I mean, that's pretty much all we _do_, so," Eilsa shrugged. She was nodding her head in time to Serenade No. 11 In E-Flat Minor. Mozart made her happy. "We kill you guys and then we take whatever is in that safe. No worries."

Thompson was carefully edging himself against a wall for a better battle position, but he needed more time. "And why do _you_ need that stuff?"

"Because I want to be prom queen," Jacob answered dryly, "Why do you _think?_"

Spiral danced between them and leaned into Felix's ear, whispering, _If you look, he is like you and I_, and the hair on the back of the magician's neck rose. But the black circles under Jacob's eyes were not the kind that Felix had: no, maybe, yes.

"You want it because.._.we_ want it?" Thompson guessed. He had his hand on a pokeball behind his back. All he could hope was that Jarel and Orson had completed their mission.

"Um…that would be a no," Eilsa snorted, "But enough with the chit-chat. Let's get to smackin'." She cracked her knuckles and rolled her shoulders. "Been a while since I've done this, I guess."

"Well, baby," Jacob smiled, "Best target practice in the world." The way he looked at her was like she was his whole life, but it only lasted for a moment. "Clones can't feel anything."

"Well, _baby,_" Thompson echoed, "That's just offensive. I'm not a clone, thanks very much. I'm a Brit."

The two from the House froze and stared at the two boys. "_What?"_ Eilsa hissed. "How is that _possible?"_

"He lied to us again," simple, easy, words like rips through canvas. Jacob looked like he was about to rend someone apart with his eyes. He shifted to the safe and swung it open, dragging out the large stack of papers inside. "He wants to mess with us? Fine. Let's mess with him."

"Wait," Felix interrupted, "Does this mean we're friends?"

"No," Eilsa bit back, but then something in her softened. "More like people with a common enemy."

"An enemy that's about to be _destroyed_," Jacob said through his teeth.

No one lied to a torturer. It just wasn't done.

xxxxxxxx

She was beautiful – the kind of abject, touch-me-please harrowing beauty that made people falling in love with a flick of her hair. She was also torn into shreds like a little glass aria. She had lost her best friend, maybe. He was standing in front of her, eating a piece of cheese, saying _get back/get back/ rat-a-tat-tat_. He wasn't speaking at all. She had just imagined that. No, she had never imagined anything, it was all about love for a child.

She was sitting on a black couch, her knees to her chest, watching Patches pace back and forth. Carmen had been there long enough, way too long. She was tired of being trapped, of being Treated. She would rather have drugs. At least drugs got you high.

Babysitter. She went from most popular girl ever to plain _babysitter_. And the brat was worse for it. Please. Carmen, normally sweet, understanding and evasive, was now a figment of a desire to snap.

"Hey guys, guess what?" bright bright bang, a child in a chair, "I want to sled in the sun-snow. Can we sled?"

"No." Crippled, sanguine, startled {Carmen}.

"I promise I won't be," disregard, revise, "They're flanking us. Bardo, get ready." She staticed out and the returned, "What will we use?"

"Literally," Carmen told the girl in the straightjacket, "I am going to kill you if you don't shut up." She had a headache. It was spreading.

Black eyes, "I know," she smiled, and they titled skywards. She switched voices again like flipping the dials on a radio – _crzsh._ "Find me a crowbar," zap, "Where? We're surrounded by snow." Sing, sing, lullaby, "I'm glad we found some bandages," a cello plays some notes that only she can hear. She twitches and whips her head to the door. "Does she miss me at all?" she wonders, sweet, sweet voice, pupils slowly contracting - couldn't have that, so Carmen sticks a needle into the neck of the twisted teenager. The girl got annoying, but it was boss's orders or something.

"I don't feel good," crazy dead-eyed girl pleaded.

"I know, Yuki, I know."

Static – station. "But what wh-w-w-w-"

xxxxxxxx

"But what will we use?" Jarel panted. Beside them were the bodies of several copies, stacked to make a ladder of sorts so that they could reach the window. Sage was propped against the wall, mumbling nonsense.

"Find me a crowbar?" Orson grinned hopefully, staring up at the panes of glace. They didn't want to kick it in, fearing the drop to the ground from the sill, and it didn't help that they didn't really know where they would be kicking _into._

"Where? We're surrounded by snow," Jarel sniffed, staring upwards as well. They only had bodies and themselves. And…an idea lit in the back of Orson's head.

"Well," he purred, "We _do_ have Sage," he allowed, stroking his chin while sizing up the skinny boy, "And he's _kind_ of like a crowbar. Maybe if we pick him up…?"

"I'm a baby in the zoo!" Sage informed them gleefully, "I'm a genie in a bottle."

"Um…maybe we shouldn't get too close to his head though. That concussion seems bad enough," Orson chuckled, heaving the boy's torso upwards. In response ,the artist went completely limp.

"I'm a rag!" he claimed cheerfully, and then started to spell his name backwards. Jarel grumbled something and scooped up the boy's long legs, hefting them over one shoulder.

"No, Sage," Orson suggested sweetly, "You're…a…piece of rebar?"

Sage instantly flexed every muscle in his body. "I hold up buildings!" he sang.

"Or break into them," Jarel muttered, positioning the feet towards the window. "On my count…three…two…one –"

"Guys...? What are you…?" a voice said from behind them. Orson jumped and Sage thumped against the ground. His head made a sound like bread being kneaded, and everyone around him flinched.

"Oh man, guysh, I dunno that I feel sho good," Sage slurred, his eyes unfocused. He flopped a few inches away, slipping from Jarel's grasp. He inhaled like he forgot what air was.

"Guys, what did you _do_ to him?" Kratch cried, slinging down from the back of the Arcanine. Mika was slower than her, a pinched look on his face, patting the Arcanine and letting it run back to its master. Kratch went to go to Sage, but her boyfriend caught her arm, frowning.

"I wouldn't, honey. People who have really bad concussions have a tendency to –"

Sage staggered to his feet, took a few steps, and proceeded to throw up over the snow. The others groaned and looked away as he struggled back to them, barely able to keep his balance.

"…Tendency to puke," Mika finished dryly. "I don't like the way that sounds. Whatever hit him in the head must have done it pretty hard. He should get help."

"I think it wash…a pretty lady," Sage managed. "Sh…She wash nice…"

"That's…that's great?" Kratch smiled at him, trying to make him feel better. He wasn't looking at her but instead at his hand like it was the first time he'd seen such a thing. "Uhm…anyway," she whispered, "We are your reinforcements. Rhyme's a few steps away, but he should be here soon."

Rhyme was indeed there pretty quickly, dragging his feet and swearing sullenly. He glanced up and saw the state of Sage and clicked his tongue. "Concussed?" he guessed, "Better get him some help. That doesn't look too good."

"Orson tastes like pie," Sage whispered loudly, "But I promised him that I would never kiss him again unless I was committed to a relationship."

"_What?_"

Orson just sighed and stared at the window. Oh, something had to give.

xxxxxxx

You think, _What could make a child forget all that they are and then learn to kill at a single word?_

Eilsa knows, she knows. When her Treatments are late and the sun isn't up yet and things are getting rough, she knows.

Daddy, take me for a walk, leave me, let me be, hold me, hug me, make me proud, say hello. Papa, tell me I'm pretty, that I'm worth keeping, that I'm fine, that wounds heal, that I'm not a whore. Father, hear my prayers and deliver me from that which has made my soul unclean, deliver me from the hatred in my heart and the burn under my skin. Dad, be there, be ok, be mine for just a moment.

Daddy daddy daddy [please _please_ I've never wished for anything more in my entire life and I'll never wish for anything ever again] daddy please, tell me that you love me even after all that I've done.

But he got home and smacked her around for being a slut.

xxxxxxx

Mika flipped a knife around his fingers and whipped it through the glass. It sliced clean through, shattering the burned sand easily. In the path of the blade, a grappling hook swung easily enough upwards, catching the edge with a click. The others stared at him. He shrugged. "I didn't know what I would need, so I brought everything." With that, he helped his girlfriend up the rope as if nothing had happened.

"See," Sage babbled, "That guy is _cool._ Not like Orson."

"I like Orson," Rhyme answered calmly, and the football player sent him a long look. Rhyme, lanky and wonderful, batted his eyelashes playfully. Orson blushed.

"Awfully nice for you to say that," he murmured. Rhyme titled that bleach-blonde to the side, his dark-circle eyes wide.

"I could say something _much_ nicer," he purred, stretching luxuriously.

"Oh Arceus, can we stop being gay for _one moment_?" Mika called, struggling to get the flailing Sage over the window sill. Jarel was already on the other side and had called an all-clear. The other two stepped in to help, and with a dull sound, Sage made it to the other side.

It was dark there, empty as Caen had promised it would be. The Sunflower Project had set up all sorts of diversions so that the copies were concentrated outside. It was working perfectly. Behind Jarel, Mika landed softly, followed by the whisking footsteps of Rhyme and finally the flat slap of Orson and the shift of the rope pulled inside. The five of them crept along quietly, dragging Sage in their wake. Mika had slapped duct tape over the artist's mouth, and he seemed content enough to just let them drag him as he chewed at it.

They made it to the desk and Rhyme carefully followed the instructions left to him by his peers, slowly unsetting the alarms and restarting the elevator. It gradually creaked open, bright white in the blackness. They shuffled in. It was promised that by then, they'd have been spotted. The elevator was the only way up to the top floor, and it had a camera in it for a reason.

"[S.e.l.e.c.t l.e.v.e.l]" the screen beeped patiently. Rhyme's fingers found "27" and pushed harder than was probably necessary, shaking in a small amount of panic for no reason he could think. "[S.c.a.n b.a.r.c.o.d.e]" the computer requested. Rhyme fumbled with the little metal cylinder as he pulled it across his neck. He was the only one with permission for the twenty-seventh floor, but he'd never used it. It was bad enough getting the money, watching it passed into the hands of evil was too much.

The cage click-whirred and started lifting upwards before the screen chirped, "[S.t.a.t.e y.o.u.r p.u.r.p.o.s.e]" and he leaned forwards uncertainly, clearing his throat.

"Umbrellas are the same thing as wings," a deep voice interrupted. Sage had finished eating the tape over his face. He looked perfectly happy, sitting on the floor and playing with his shoes. They all shot him a look. That concussion seriously needed to be checked out or something.

"_{[Rhyme?]}_" her voice over the intercom had an instant effect: a deep thud in their chests as if they were standing in the full force of a bass drum, as if they were on the sun, as if they were whole again. It was the sound of the universe starting and the end. Kratch started to cry and she didn't know why. "_{[Rhyme, he's still in his office. Please hurry]}_" she whispered, and the others in the room started to feel like crying too. Her voice was the noise impossible.

The elevator clicked to a halt and the doors slid open nonchalantly into the lit hallway. No fights, no battles, nothing awaited them. At the far end, she was pretending to write something. But it was moonrise – she had her voice back. No need for notes.

They dragged Sage to her, and worry filled those empty eyes. {[_Oh, oh no.]}_ That was it. Only that. She didn't say anything else, and it was enough for them to stare at her, startled. She sounded like a river and a sunrise and hay and everything wonderful in life. She sent them a shy look. {[_He'll be out in a minute, I'll just page him]}_ she said in that voice of hers. None of the students could move. Every time she opened her mouth, diamonds fell out. She was the pretty stepdaughter. She was perfection. She was the worst weapon anyone could wield. She clicked a button and a door opened.

The Dean sauntered out, a knife pressed deep against Tommi's throat.

"Hey guys," the boy wheezed, smiling, "Don't worry about me." Blood slowly dragged from the wound, and his face was swelling with the signs of a serious beating. "Just listening to country music. That's why I look like this."

The Dean hissed and put his back to the fountain on the wall. "Any of you make a single move, and I'll kill him," he smiled. He looked like black coffee but without the caffeine: just dangerous and sharp. He snapped those ice eyes towards the secretary and bared his teeth. "And if _you _make a _single_ sound, I make a call and your son dies."

She just stared blankly at the ground. She was so broken, nothing could mend her. She sometimes didn't even know her name anymore {darkness, falling, Charlotte}. She slid, ashamed, into the background, letting the children handle it on their own. Her son was at risk.

The Dean saw and laughed. "See, though? See? You all think that you're strong and part of some big resistance project, like my bosses aren't waiting for you. But _she_ knows. She's the smart one. She'll probably live through this. And what of you?"

"I don't know," Mika replied testily, surreptitiously sliding his hand around a kunai, "Probably if I die I'll get a really awesome headstone or something?"

The Dean didn't laugh. He just flicked his eyes in the direction of the boy and smiled with the force of a million suns. "You think you're special? You think you're funny?" The blade against Tommi's throat was the same color as the winter, so cold, so cold. Tommi was thinking of his kid sisters and their blue eyes. They were triplets and so perfect and so close to death if he just overstepped.

"Well," Mika purred, "I've certainly heard I could do worse." He was watching for weaknesses. He was a pretty good shot, but it came down to the timing: could he throw the kunai fast enough that the Dean would not be able to react? Would the force of the impact injure Tommi? Too many factors were swirling around his head.

"Oh little Mika Jones," the Dean spat, "Thinking that if he shuts down a device, all of his dream will come true. And who am I to stop you? After all, I don't know you at all, do I?"

"Regretfully," he answered, twisting his lips like he was apologetic. He was actually sizing his opponent up.

A grin. "Mika Jones is all of fifteen years old and already a killer. Mika Jones has a scar under his right eye because he got in a fight with a Zangoose and lost. Mika Jones struggles to write well, cannot cook without burning food, cannot underwater basket weave, is a tenor when he sings - which is rarely, is a terrible dancer but an amazing fighter. _Mika Jones_," blue eyes fire ice, "Has a secret artistic ability and sleeps with a stuffed Teddiursa. Do you want me to continue, sir?" A voice like caramel death. Mika was shaking. He didn't mean to be. Nothing ever phased him, nothing before. But this man with a knife against a friends throat and no weaknesses whatsoever, this man made him tremble and take a step backwards. "Mika, Mika, Mika. Called Mimsy by a bully in the third grade. Never got anything below a sixty on a test, and obsessed with textures. Mika once contemplated killing himself, but it didn't happen because he kissed a boy first. Will Rio, wasn't it?"

"_How long_?" deep, venomous, the kind of growl that comes from fear, "How long have you been _stalking_ me?"

"Oh Mimsy, Meeks, Mishka. It's not just you. And it's not even that I'm stalking you. It's just that I know all of you, and it doesn't help. It never helps. I've read your file sixteen times and it still hasn't helped. Because Frost, the glory, Frost, the sun, Frost is _inescapable."_ His eyes were dancing like leaves on the wind, breaking branches and burgundy and bourbon. He focused them on Orson and babbled, "Orson Leander, sixteen, six feet and four inches, Southern. Wants to work for social services when he is too old to play football. He hates to write papers, his favorite color is red, he loves The Association, his favorite television show is 'Whose Line is It Anyway,' he has broken three bones, loves the number four, and would eat pizza until he burst if someone let him. He is also not sure if he's gay or not, but does have a crush on Kratch and Rhyme at the same time."

Orson blushed and frowned deeply, staring at his feet. It was the only time anyone had seen that expression on him, one of self-hatred and helplessness.

The Dean pivoted towards Kratch, dragging Tommi along. He was advancing slowly, taking them down with words alone. "Kra-"_Wham._

{[_**Bitch**_]} the secretary snarled, holding her chair over her head, _{[That's for my son.]}_

He made a sound in the back of his throat and tottered forwards before releasing Tommi and slipping to the ground, his temple connecting to the granite with a hard sick crack. Blood slowly trickled from his mouth, pooling in brownish red.

"He'll be _fine,_" Sage declared, sauntering ahead, "Imma go shut down the disease and then we'll all be healed!"

"It's…a _device,_ Sage," Kratch told him quietly, slinking behind him. The door in the wall was the difference between mystery and endings. It was dark in the room, and they all filed in silently. Something in the taste of the air was incredibly somber, filled with wreckful abandon. Tommi restlessly kicked over a chair, the one he had been trapped in so many times. If he looked, he could see the stains from nights where information hadn't been enough. They all knew what they were going to.

Rhyme felt along the Dean's desk until he caught the catch under it, flipping the switch so that a groan sounded and a door in the wall slid open. They stared at it, at the place where their greatest fear was held, where the answer to all of Frost was sitting and smiling and sunning themselves. One of them waved gleefully, _hey there, we're behind it all._

"No," Kratch whispered, begging, helpless, daddy don't, "Not you. Please, anyone but you."

**X-X**

**A.N: Oh my gosh the only reason this is up at all is because of Otter {Stolloss} who figured a work-around for the site glitch that was preventing me from updating.**

**See you in a week, thanks for your patience :)**

**Love you, reviewers, love you readers. It's been a long ride, huh?**

**Take care.  
**


	27. Chapter 27

In the past, they had discovered some strange things, inhuman things, things that made a sinner to flinch and a singer to faint. In the past they had discovered, oh, ho, eternal life, exultation, murder.

Here's the thing: the world turns only for so long.

Fire and you know it's yours, because it burns like that, it burns like you know what love is even though it's been a long time since he even looked at you like that. Once when you were little, your mother sat with you on your front porch, iced tea in her hand, humming and tilting her head back to catch the sun in her hair. You pulled your knees to your chest, rocking with the swing of the bench, quiet and waiting because she knew wisdoms you never did. She would tell you things like the white marks in your fingernails were the number of boys who were thinking of you, like there were four and twenty black coals baked in a pie, like the sun rose and set and no one ever died. That what was nice about her, maybe: that in all that time, she never lied. Thusly the truths that leaked from between her white clean lips were unassuming and gentle.

So it goes, and so it goes: this is a place of shrieks and sunrises. This is where you will come where you are ready.

You can still hear her scream, her voice crawling up through the sand between your toes.

You built her a sandcastle because there was no other way to tell her _no_.

xxxxxxxxx

There is a sin that comes from the slaughter, from the crunch of bones between teeth and the savage restoration of life. There is a deeper sort of fanged demise that lurks within that, within the quicksilver and summer swelter, within the startled look of distrust at an old friend. There is something intangible that speaks to the deepest set of souls, that speaks to the rivers and the skies equally, that speaks to a child standing before their father and realizing that he is nothing more than an old fool. Oh but to be the confused ones, to be the willing ones, to be the ones who play in the dappled shade of a sunset. Oh to be the ones who strike up a dance while the stars delight, to be the ones who sit in calla lilies and watch the meadow bend in the breeze. To be the ones that put up a fight.

But first, but first. The blood of the butchered must be cleaned and all evidence erased, as if that was the purification of an ideal, just a quick swipe to hide from the god that might not exist; branches to hide a naked body. Isn't that what sin is? Shame?

So they stand in the middle of a set of bodies and quake.

She with the dark eyes is the first to speak, trembling and pulling her hands reflexively to her stomach, paling. "What _is_ this?" There is no answer from the floating creatures, all so pretty and perfect and wonderful. No, no, no. "It…It… _please,_ it can't be," Grace protests, voice like sliding scales, too smooth. She presses a hand against one glass, peering into the golden liquid and wishing she could only _undo_. A cathedral of children unborn, a full hallway of capsule-shrines to the not-quite-dead. Nightmares. "They can't be…"

A click, they all whip around. A new girl with eyes the color of {just break down, crying, sitting alone in a house and shaking with sorrow, watching him walk away, realizing she hates you; _you will never be free_} nothing, standing there with a bleak plastic mask over her face. She looks specifically at Will and he hears something in him say, _They are what your friend fears them to be._

"No," a growl, protective. He yanks Grace to his side, wrapping his arms around her and staring at the wraith. He presses the thief closely to him, as if that would stop the truth that is shaping in his head.

_I am so sorry,_ the fake one says, shaking those wet almost-limp locks. _But I know because they are my sisters. I am as they are._

Izzy is pressing the sides of her head and trying not to cry. "Please," she begs the girl, hearing the honey voice as well as Will does. "Please. But we… we…"

_I am so sorry,_ long lashes and repeat, _but yes._

"All of them?" and at her nod, he grits his teeth. Is this what they have been fighting? Are all of those children of darkness just the repossessed versions of these children in bronze liquid?

Encased in gold worries were rows and rows of mirror-children. Every student from Frost was gently floating in the in-between space, every teacher.

So perfect.

xxxxxxxxx

That's not what this is about, it's about the way he turns away from Mimi now, even though she thought that they were friends; that pinched look on his narrow face like he's trying to wish her away. She wishes too, but it's that she didn't know body language so she wouldn't understand every movement like it was a banner in itself, every time he twitches in her presence and crosses his legs away from her or touches his hair or puts his arms across his body or just walks away while she's still talking. She wishes it wasn't cold where they were, that she wasn't the only one who felt it, everyone else staring at her because they're all buttoned up in their pretty little failures, and she's stumbling around feeling like last year's Prada line. She remembers when this was easier and she was popular and happy, and her mother remembers it too. Her mother says as much, "You used to be fun," and it occurs to Mimi that she can remember being fun as well, but she was someone else then; someone wild and lost and helpless, full of the desire to break apart into sand, crumbling on the beach to the sound of waves in the background.

This is the background, the part where things come together, where you realize that the story is about you still, that it always has been. That's why it speaks to you, but you don't know that yet. All you know is that she used to be fun and now she's just kind of amusing.

Of course, then again, she also used to hold the sun in her hair and wisdom in her eyes. He used to be able to show her the world, take her wonder by wonder {the thing about flying carpets, darling, is that they unravel in the air}.

She was never a heroine. Rushing in to save the day, to pull the teachers out of whatever they had gotten themselves into, smiling, flipping back those dyed strands of azure so that everyone could see her confidence.

She just wants to close her eyes and go to sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxx

_Come_, she says, _he is this way._ Will follows her without thinking, weaving his hand with Grace's. The thief doesn't say anything but instead blushes deeply, trying to hide her face behind her hair. He pretends not to notice, trailing after the quickly-disappearing vision as she leads them down the aisle of glowing tubes. It seems endless in all directions, and the four children do their best to avert their eyes. There is something terrible in the way that first it is a teacher, now a student, now someone that they know too well. Everyone behind the glass is too plastic, fake, remade. A mandible torn from a mouth.

The plastic child twists in that way of hers, until she comes to a black door that she props open to reveal a fire-escape, halfway covered in snow. She disappears down it, leaving the four of them by themselves for a moment. Izzy takes a deep breath and whispers, "Should we even be listening to her? She looks like…like…"

"Like one of_ them_?" Willy finishes for her, a wry, dark smile tinting his lips. "Like one of _us_?"

"Don't say that," the blonde snaps, "They're clones. They're not really us."

"It's the whole school," he tells her, as if that isn't obvious, "And there's absolutely no difference between them and us."

"Except that I'm real and they're not," she bites back. "I know it. I know it." She stalks forwards and takes Nathan's hand, pulling him outside with her. She is thinking of her past and her father, of the man that left them all by accident.

Will sends Grace a de-_lish_ grin. "Well, if it's _just us_…_" _he purrs suggestively, running his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Nope," she replies, cracking the word in her mouth, "Not in this lifetime," and then she is gone too, padding after her friends. He watches the door swing shut and then sends a long look behind him at the rows and rows of cylinders. He rolls back his shoulders and smiles.

xxxxxxxxx

In the castle, there is an old man, a wise man. When you go in, if you go in, a voice will greet you – a voice in tongues and ties. If you sit still and make the noise of dust settling and do not fall asleep, then you will be admitted into a greater antechamber where all sorts of knights dressed up as skeletons will make their anger known. Do not move or fall asleep. When the man comes for you, if you ask nicely enough, and are calm enough, and do not fall asleep, then he might not kill you. If you are not dead when the man comes for you, you can push your luck and ask the man one question, but you must be brief because the man does not wait for any human. Make your question heard and phrase it with as much tenderness as if you were setting porcelain on rock, for the man is quick to anger and loves to make misery. If you have asked for the right thing, and have not moved from you position or fallen asleep, he might let you live. He might even answer you or grant you your wish, if he does not kill you. From there, you are on your own. May all things holy have mercy on your soul.

xxxxxxxxxx

She had been his best friend and she never failed him, but at the time he didn't know how long that would last. He was going to let her down and he knew it, he felt it, he would never be as good as she was or as smart or as willing to sacrifice himself for something, and one day he knew he turn around and she would have to leave him because he was that much of an awful person. In the end, she never does end up doing such a thing because she was nice and patient like that. He shared mostly nothing in common with her except for maybe a lunch block, and he had thought that she was keeping him around because she remembered how fun he had been when he was younger and she was maybe hoping that one day that person would show up again sometime, like it was some drum beat in summer heat. She had been sitting next to him and eating her just-cheese sandwich and staring at her chemistry homework, blonde hair falling from where she'd tucked it behind her ears. She was wonderful and beautiful, and no, this was not a romantic comedy movie and he loved her but it wasn't like that, because he knew he would one day let her down so he did everything he could for her until then.

She had looked up and smiled at him, tilting her head and asking why he was staring, and he had shrugged. He had been thinking of the time where someone died and it wrecked him inside and then she called him later just to make sure he was all right. She had been there always for him and he couldn't help but to think of all the times he hadn't been there for her. He would also absently think of her future, the one she actually had and the one he gave up when he was younger, about how she had always been that balance of fun and calm, about how he always the extremes, either wild and off the wall or this impassible uncaring demon of the undersea, nothing could touch him. He wished he had been there every time she wanted him to be there, every time that he had something else to do. He wondered if she knew that, but knowing her, she wouldn't let him say. She didn't care and she would never feel bad for herself. He had handed her a piece of his orange and said, You're Awesome, You Know That? Because there was really no other way to say it, other than, _you have saved my life so many times that I have lost count._

He is currently trudging across the snow, his lips burning with the aftershock of Talyn's ginger-mint lip-gloss, thinking of the girl that should have been his first love – should have been his first mistake – but all she is amounts to only wisps of things in past strings. It's not her fault that they no longer are so close. When he closes his eyes, he can see the pink of her lips, moving across those white straight teeth, mouthing something he can never recall. He knows it was the moment before he tore everything apart, sharp edges and a wheel turning out of control, fingers in his hair like the tar lies from the briar patch.

The art room had been the warmest place in the school in the dead of winter, and they had hidden themselves away in it. Neither of them were really artists, but both of them were attracted to the vent that blasted right by their seats. He had burning up for so long that it tortured him to think of it, which is why it spilled like a fever from him, sludge. He hadn't meant to confess to her, but in those blue eyes were the same understanding that had been there since they met. _So,_ just jumping into it, _what if I told you… I'm kind of… in love?_

She had been working on her Latin, and at his question, her eyebrow twitched upwards. She was intrigued, and this made him laugh. She could talk to him without ever opening her mouth. And then, like irrevocable wisps, the words tumbled like hair to the ground, softly but unchangeably. He told her everything, of the teacher with copper hair and eyes like endless nights, of the way she had brushed his shoulder when she laughed, of the way she had talked to him, of the way she had taken him out once or twice, of the way she had leaned over and kissed him, lipstick stains in a movie theatre. He remembers the way that his best friend looked at him then, the way she just closed those eyes, just for a moment, like everything was processing, but to him it looked like a light had dimmed. When those ice globes met his face again, there was something new in them. It was worry, disgust, disgrace. _You have to tell the principal_, she hissed. _It's not…it's not right._ But it had to be right. Everything was dependent on the rightness, on the way his heart sped up when the teacher was around, on her tongue brushing his.

In another world, Davion supposed that he ended up going out with the blonde beast that was his best friend, but not in this one. Once or twice, he has imagined what would have happened, but when he tried to, it was blocked by a grinning briar patch of a woman, her slim hand on his bicep, commenting on how he must work out. The ring, clattering to the road. It would never change. Instead, his friend's eyes lost their light for a moment and she turned away from him – not out of disgust, not out of horror, but to take action to save him. He grabbed her thin wrist, and she winced. There were angry red marks from where he'd held her too hard, perhaps with a strength born of desperation. _Please,_ was all he could say, _Please don't._ So she didn't. Sometimes when things are going too fast and everything sounds hollow, he wishes she had.

He is making his cold body move because someone has told him to. That is how he functions now: he brain stuck on if-you-say-so tunes. She's long gone with those red shoes on, and he still can't sleep at night. He still feels his skin dance around like he's made of amber and is covered in a thin white envelope that doesn't quite fit. One day someone will look at him and know he is no longer all the way human. He knows this because he likes the way he is injected with poison, the way that the music in his head sounds like a runway model: too skinny, afraid of being caught without her makeup on, high heels clacking on white surfaces, never alone. The only time he knows what he is doing, he is swimming. Sometimes he likes to pretend he is swimming when he his standing still, so that the world shuts down and the echoes across the water are just that of happy voices.

He is following the sashay of her hips, but he's not looking at her like that. Talyn, all power and one-hit-wonder, makes him irrevocably sad. She is all torn up but no one sees it because she covers it in lip-gloss and sassy remarks. He watches as she pulls back her fist and restlessly slams it into a face. She is nothing if not a sweet child of the night. She is black/blue/broken, sailing on winds that don't sing anymore, flapping those crescent wings and never getting off the ground. She is the tar baby, unloved because everything she touches breaks and bleeds and in the end, she is the plane going down and the forty seconds to call your loved ones. She is the sharp teeth on your lap, the purring and the salvation in thick fur, the wagging tail and the snarl when you get too close to her. She is just as lost as everyone else, but she pretends she is not.

She leads the charge and is a monster of destruction, and it is at this point that a child steps forwards in the snow, holding up tiny hands. Talyn freezes, her eyes fixated on the toddler, who is smiling through broken teeth and looks like a melody. Next to Talyn, her pokemon are rattling their exoskeletons in that way that spoke of warning and disgust.

"Talyn," the child's voice like iris poison, reaching those pudgy arms up, wanting. Talyn's eyes have gone from their royal blue to an almost-black, the reflection of the child a dagger in her mind. She sinks to her knees, regardless of the snow, regardless of the wet chewing through her leggings. Her light brown hair is sailing in the wind, and there is something written across her face that speaks of agelessness and horror and defeat.

"Cyan," she whispers, "Cyan, what are you doing here?" She reaches out her slim arms to the child, her fingertips brushing the thin skin with a distant caring. "Where are mommy and daddy, honey? You shouldn't be out here."

"Talyn, Talyn Lynch," Cyan babbles, "Mommy and daddy?"

"Yes, baby girl," Talyn's voice is the color of down feathers, soft and white. "Mommy and daddy." She is slowly working her way to the girl with dark oak hair and a slight lisp. The others around her have stopped, staring at the way she is positioned, ready to wrap a creature of the night next to the warmth of her body.

"Talyn," Tobi says softly, "Talyn, I don't know who you think that is, but she's not real. She's a clone, just like everyone else."

"No," the slim girl is frowning like he is telling her that this is a dream, "That's my baby sister. That's Cyan. I promise. I know her." She stretches and gently claps her fingers around the tiny hands. "Tell them, honey. Tell them."

"Baby sister," Cyan repeats, and Talyn sweeps her up, holding her tight like the little girl might turn into ashes and sand. When the teeth sink deep into her neck, she only lets out a little gasp, the kind of indrawn breath that sounds like the wind rustling the lilacs over an unmarked grave.

She collapses, light brown hair and copper highlights, eyes wide, her blood this crimson splash over the sleek white of snow.

xxxxxxx

Once upon a time, a mother wanted nothing so much as a baby girl. She would trail her hands through the willow branches and smile like she couldn't see you. Although she was lonesome and wistful, she was a good woman, a kind woman, and did all she could to hide her pain. One day, in the middle of the forest, a figure in black approached her and said that the woman's modest behavior would be rewarded, should she follow a few simple steps to ensure the birth of a beautiful little girl. The witch – for it had to be a witch, it had to be – requested but three things for the completion of the spell. The woman was to cover her hands in coal, to shear off her snowy blonde hair, and to slit her wrists over a field of lilies. So desperate was this woman that she followed each step religiously, and so unto her was born a baby girl cursed with eyes as black as night, skin mottled and torn apart, and lips as white as fallen snow.

The thing about love and once-upon-a-times is that they are rare and only take place in the in-between moments. The thing about true fairy tales is that they end like this: although the daughter was a hideous slaughter of humanity, the mother loved it nonetheless.

That's the thing about beauty, too: the more that someone loves you, the less that it matters.

xxxxxxx

Once upon a time, a little girl was born with hair the color of chestnuts, eyes the color of the bottom of the ocean and lips the color of a candied apple. Once upon a time, without a witch or a woman in the woods, a parent turned his little blossom onto a common weed.

This is how she ends up gasping and clutching one hand to the wound on her neck: first she is trained as an assassin.

xxxxxxx

"_Me?"_ she's horrified at the assumption, "No, it was _him_," she points her slim finger at her partner like she's cutting him down with a bow and arrow. He looks equally affronted and sends her a vicious glare – _way to throw me under the bus. _He's stopped pacing through the large, mostly empty room, frozen in a beautiful twist. It doesn't take long before he's in motion again, wonderful and perfect action. The granite under his toes looks like sand, but makes the noise of stone.

She's sitting on the tawny couch, popping grapes in her pretty mouth. It would be perfect, that picture, but she is awkward when she moves: gawky, exposed. It is in the single moments that she shines, but judging from the mess that she has thrown her hair into, she doesn't care either way. When Kratch looks at her, the words _Do you remember what I said? She pricked her finger and now she's dead_ ring in her ears like the ghost of a demon in her eyes. "But thanks for jumping to conclusions, guys. Glad to know that I look like a crazy. Love you too, Kratch," Carmen smiles with the luxury of innocence, a luxury she doesn't deserve. She keeps sneaking looks at a door over her shoulder on the far right side of the room like she expects it to open and death to walk out.

"Not _you,_" Kratch replies, her voice distant, "Yuki." She stares at her roommate, who is perched precariously on her chair and is rocking back and forth, back and forth in a pretty pastel straightjacket. Kratch's face contorts, but in a way that that is tormented and {_ang_**e**_r (_sad_)_ l.o.n.e.l.y_ ra_**g**_e .__**wh**_y. [_I_ mi_s_s_e_d yo**u**] _how c__**oul**__d y_ou [I th_oug_ht t_h_at yo**u** w_er_e] _**No**_ it's a .t.r._i.__**c.k.**_ _**I Know It's A**_ (I love you. I am so, so, so glad that you're alive.) _**How Dare You**_ _kn_ow I'm _j_us_t so ha__**ppy**_** so**_ Happy_ so _**I hate y-**_} restless.

Mika had stepped in too, and is now staring at the walls and ceilings – everything is glass reflecting back their shocked faces and showing off the night. The others file in, pressing their backs against the only solid wall. Rage is spiraling through Jarel's face, and Mika can see why.

"You've been watching us," Jarel's voice is dull, staring at the giant monitor across from Carmen. It's flickering between heartless scenes like black static. "That's got to be every inch of Frost."

"Probably," Carmen, thoughtful, "But it's not like I wanted to. They were holding Patches for ransom or something. And I'm a good babysitter, and they had grapes." As if to demonstrate this, one disappears behind the ruby of her lips. "'Course, I imagine they took Patches 'cause he's good with talking without talking, so that works. You think he speaks, but it's really his body. It's… it's… it's complicated." Her voice isn't exactly like how you would expect it; rougher and sharper than the neat planes in her face. Not every part of her is so pretty and solid, glass.

"I'm the only one," Yuki whispers, "And I was made to replace me, and her, and her. I will be the only one when the circle closes and the silence falls." Her honey eyes are rolling again, twisting to see things that don't exist.

"What did you _do_ to her?" fists, clenched by her side, anger in her blue-grey eyes, Kratch showing her teeth, "You _monsters._" At her side, Lux and Skit take their battle stances. They can feel their owner's hatred and fury, and it is making their fur stand up. The Luxio's teeth are showing, yellow-white daggers sparking with cruelty.

This is how it starts: he leaps, this blue streak of electricity and power, and his body collides in the air with another creature that is all red snow, and then it is teeth and snarls and snapping, rolling on the floor with sparks skittering across the stone. The Zangoose is beating against Lux's stomach with her hind claws, and Lux is charging his Bite attack, the silky black slithering over his teeth. Their eyes are wild and white, that dangerous fury of animals. Patches stands behind his Zangoose and snarls - _Don't you _dare_ try to hurt Carmen_. His Kira is growling out the same message, her pretty ivory fur already starting to blot with blood.

Carmen stands, and she frowns with those gorgeous lips, her hands on her hips. "Who said we did anything?" she argues, but then Kratch's Skitty is darting across the space, talons unsheathed. She twists and burns with a Faint Attack directed for Carmen's skull, but a bright green blur slams into her first, calling out in anger. The Xatu opens her wings and glitters with the cruelty of Steel Wing, her eyes focused and hard. No one was allowed to touch her owner, no one. Skit slides across the floor with the force of the impact, her soft paws scrambling for purchase.

It is all an instant, and Mika steps forwards and signals for Orson, Jarel, Rhyme and Tommi to stand down – their pokemon are hurt enough as it is, Tommi is in no condition to do anything, and this isn't their fight. Sage has sat himself in the middle of the floor, his head titled back to watch the television. His pokemon pace around him anxiously, watching for any signs that their owner has returned to his intelligence.

Zulu is a black ball of anger, but his oncoming Crunch is met with an equally powerful Headbutt from Carmen's Seel. Carter pulls back his lips over his long tusks, his ebony eyes glinting with power. The Umbreon is quicker than him, but the Seel has better defense. There's the sound of colliding skin and teeth, growls and hisses, and the sound of the owners. Kratch leaps across the battles, sidestepping a stray Spark from Lux and wrapping her hands in Carmen's messy hair. Mika takes this as a sign to attack as well, and Patches suddenly has his hands full dodging the knight's quick movements. For every swipe of that sword, Patches has a dance move, and he doesn't look like he's too concerned. Carmen is whining, but it's because girls fight dirty, and Kratch has just bit her in her throat.

Kratch's Kirlia, Tai, is taking on the blind Gardevoir that is the leader of Patches' team. Their psychic attacks are invisible and deadly, but the others can feel them colliding in their minds. Mika's Charmelon has powered up his Iron Tail and the sound of the attack is met with the shriek of Carmen's Milotic. Everywhere is light, glinting against the glass of the room. It's all sound in empty space, Jarel and Orson flinching as the fights continue. Patches lands a blow on Mika while Carmen snatches at Kratch's shirt, tearing long streaks where her nails have made contact. "If you just –" the pretty girl tries, but Kratch has punched her in the nose, and is now shaking out her fist, surprised at the amount that it hurts.

_Listen to her_, Patches says in that way that he speaks without ever opening his mouth. The scar on his face is highlighted by blood. Mika ignores this and focuses. It's hard, the knight has to admit. The boy he is up against rarely fights back but instead mostly just wears down his opponent, all willowy movement. It's a pretty even match, Mika realizes, and that makes him scared. Behind him, Zulu has gotten his teeth through Carter's skin, and the poison of Crunch is purple in the atmosphere.

"I'm not _lying,_" Carmen protests, "It wasn't us that did that to your friend." Her Milotic has just used Hydro Pump on Mika's Charmelon, and the excess water from the attack pools underfoot. It reflects the scene perfectly for an instant, but the Charmelon's body slams into it and everything is distorted ripples. Kratch hates the idea that her boyfriend and his loved ones are falling for her, so she steps back enough just to hear the story. She barks an order and sudden silence trembles in the room like a bell.

"Honest," Carmen whispers, panting and brushing at a cut on her cheek, "We would never do anything like that."

"But _I_ would," new voice, trim, prim, curt, fresh blades. Black heels and the door to dying, now opened, click clack getting closer, macaroni bracelet on indigo string around her wrist {_Vanilla Sugar}_. Behind her, a man with a gun, padding confidently across the smooth golden floor, {Closer, closer, when did the room get so small, for the love of all that is holy, _stay away_} a toothpick between his teeth.

Mika pales. He tries to speak, and when he does, it's strangled and forced. _"Izzy?"_

xxxxxxx

She hates crowds but they are impossible to escape, some trap of people that makes her nervous even though no one else knows. She's actually incredibly shy, self-conscious, none of that talkative confidence that she puts on so people won't see how she is actually at a loss for words, dying a little, trembling, wishing someone would accept her. In crowds she loses sight of who she is, because there's not that one person that she can shape her personality to. She hates crowds because she steps out of them and she's still lost inside; that wanderlust ache that reminds her of mourning, that sinful abandonment of the soul, a deep gravitational curl of torment or something else. She knows most of the pain will probably go away after an hour or so, but it will still be there, under everything. She hates crowds because they remind her that she thinks she has no soul, she gave that up for sheer control. She is like loud music after an opera, out of place, but she can't change.

Spirit Ikusa should be content, because she is bashing faces in. Generally she finds face-bashing fun. Instead she just feels tired, like someone has taken her breath and is hiding it in a treasure chest. She hurts, but she has no injuries. The snow is turning into mud and blood. Her ebony hair is in tangles and her Sableye looks like she has a broken arm. Spirit wants the fights to be over, but it's because of who she is fighting.

Justin Montgomery, shadowing his Haunter, is covered in dirt and panting. He wasn't made for this. He teaches writing classes, not how to kill. "Mako wants you to know that they've taken the sixth sector," he breathes. "We don't know how they're doing it." He is bleeding badly, she realizes, and his eyes are foggy, the color of being lost.

"It's the Treatments," Spirit tells him. "Did the others make it out?" She clicks her tongue and her Froslass unleashes a relentless Blizzard, cackling to the sound of screams. Winter has always been a little masochistic like that, but that's why Spirit likes her so much.

"Yeah," his voice is quiet and hurt. "They found her body."

The words hurt worse than music, although they shouldn't. It had been obvious from the beginning that she was dead, so why did it burn when it turned truth? She tskes and shakes her head. "I _liked_ Kaylee, somewhat," she sighs. "How'd they figure it out?"

"That Jacob kid did," he looks angry or impressed, it's hard to tell, and "I think he's figured out just about everything."

She feels terrible but she kills another person without blinking. To her left flank, Nikkei Finetivus is a glorious, beautiful mark of a man, all action and knowing. His dark chocolate eyes are smoothly calculating every motion around him, and something about that is too dangerous for words. His voice cuts to her, "The Dean has Tommi. Are you holding down enough that I can go to him?" He is Tommi's uncle, after all, although the blandness of his eyes do not betray any love.

Spirit snorts and frowns. "Does it _look_ like I'm capable of continuing without you? We're the entire fourth sector, Nikkei," she's all teeth, "I don't think you can just go gallivanting off whenever you feel like it." He's glaring at her now, but it looks like he understands. She wishes she could leave, too. She hates this. She orders another attack and then asks, "How is Cam holding up?"

Justin shrugs a little and says, "Now that Lenard and Grain are back, she should have an easier time. Of course, she took Kaylee's death pretty hard. The two of them were friends." There's a moment of silence at that, like he's said something to shut down the noise around them, but then Nikkei's Miltank is calling out in pain and it's all movement again.

Cam Blake, restless in the second sector, is indeed taking the news hard, but it's because the body is at her feet, bloated and eyes black, bruises from livor mortis already purple on her skin. She looks plastic and fake and cold, and although it hasn't been long enough that rigor mortis has set in, she is stiff and terrifying. There is pretty blood dried beside her temple where she was shot. The hole is large and terrible, and Cam does not look at it because she is fighting off House members like everyone else.

"I still think we're too old for this," he's smiling, but that's because he's crazy. He still believes he's in a dream and this is just a reality constructed through the harmonies between the pauses in music. He doesn't make any sense, but that's ok.

Mr. Grain agrees, but doesn't say so. He is sleepy, and he's watching the House come in their clever ways. They are relentless, but not in the mindless way of clones. They're children, and they fight to kill.

Amidst the destruction and the horror and the hatred, someone laughs.

xxxxxxxx

Cherry won the game, but that was obvious. Cherry won because she followed the rules, and rules are there for a reason. That makes her the leader, which is how they all end up in the snow, laughing. She smiles through her teeth and makes the sign for them to go. They know her plan. It is easy, sanguine. It will work, probably.

"Alright, guys. Let's find Rose," her voice is the same batter-sweet intonation, but her sisters are holding weapons like heartache.

They make desolation look so {p.r.e.t.t.y.}

_[Snow White, Rose Red;_

_Haven't enough your children bled?_

_Snow White, Rose Red;_

_Aren't enough your lovers dead?]_

xxxxxxx

She hates him in some distant way, but he doesn't know that, he thinks she's perfect in every way. That's what bothers her, maybe, that he has no idea who she is but instead just assumes she is this sculpted goddess that can kill with her bare hands and knows of nothing but war and sin and salvation, that she's some angel with bright wings and a white sword, that she's funny and sweet and sour. He has no idea, and no one does, no one knows of the nightmares every night and that stupid continuous clock on the side of her bed that always says the same time when she wakes up. She thinks that that's the time the world ends, secretly, because it is always the same time and she always wakes up with a gasp, shaking and shivering, skin boiling with some horrible leftover blood from that dream she just had, from that nightmare that speaks of the day she is about to have. Some days she imagines herself as psychic, but that horrifies her even more, because if that's the magic she has, then where are the other people with it? And she can remember having more magic, when she was younger, but it inked out every night in the screams that sang from her throat; goodbye.

They read what's inside the notes of the safe and she's choking up, maybe. The Treatments make her feel fuzzy. It's the note, _Others spotted on the outside_ that makes her take Jacob's hand and shake her head.

"We're going," she whispers, "We have to go. I don't want to be here anymore. We'll just… go."

He is staring at the papers, his jaw set. He twitches his lips and asks, "To where?" because all they have ever known is the beauty of the inside of the House. Thompson and Felix are watching them talk, the two boys pondering what they should do. Is it really that easy?

"Anywhere else. There's nothing holding us down. What are they going to take from us?" she grins a little, maybe crazy, but she's desperate and she has to get out.

"There will be no more Treatments," he warns, but he likes her idea because that means being with her. No, he likes it because it is a tactically acceptable plan.

"I don't care," she's tugging at him now, "I don't care."

"You'll get all your memories back," he tells her, but she just shrugs, _who cares anymore_ and he loves her for that so much that he follows her away. They have nothing to pack. They have no one to love. They leave in a blink of an eye.

Thompson sighs. "It's up to us, then, huh?" The notes say that the device most important to Frost is somewhere in the library. He has to find it and destroy it because what he has read is burning at him now, it's only the mission he's after.

Felix watches the two children leave and shrugs.

He wishes them nothing but happiness and a long life together.

xxxxxxxx

Izzy is twisting on the inside, but it doesn't show. She's split in half and someone is saying her name, but at the same time she's just wandering in the footsteps of some almost-ghost girl who doesn't speak unless spoken to. Izzy isn't thinking of what they're looking for but instead of the day when she woke up and her handwriting was girly and neat. She is thinking of all the days that something like that happened to her, that she lost something that made her uncomfortable in some small way. She can remember the day that he stopped talking to her and she started to write in messy cursive again, like her briar patch was jarring her hand. The music in her head sounds like the last performance of a ballet she used to be in. It hurts.

They follow the almost-girl, and she takes them to a metal building in the forest. It's been painted green, and it turns Grace pale. She looks like she wants to throw up. She won't step into the clearing, like some animal part of her is repulsed by steel and padlocks. The girl they have been following has disappeared into the pine needles and her absence somehow feels warm.

Will looks at Grace to pick the lock, but she's shaking her head and stepping backwards little by little like she's trying to run away. He motions to his Scizor, and the lock snaps off clean like it was meant to break. The door's opening mechanism is a little more difficult, and he needs Nathan's help to shoulder it. The door creaks like bones and a look falls over the writer's face: it's too dark in there, and it smells like death. It's too large for them to see the back of it, but there's already someone moving closer to them – a boy, with wide lost eyes and messy skin, too thin, helpless, he looks like he's just died.

"You've come to save me," he tries to say, but he hasn't used his voice for anything other than screaming lately, so it's jumbled and awkward. Izzy frowns and goes into her pack, pulling out a sandwich and a water bottle. He lunges for it and guzzles the liquid before shoving the sandwich down his throat. He looks up desperately like he hopes for more but doubts it is coming. Izzy, being trained in the ways of the hunger arts, hands him an apple and more water and advises him to breathe in between mouthfuls.

"You all have to go," he tells the group, breathless and voice cracking, "You have no idea how much danger you're in."

"I do," she's small and hiding now, branches over her face, dark hair like lost nests, "I do, and we're all going to die."

xxxxxxxx

Tommi used to like the smell of acetone, grinding over his nose and curling into his brain cells. He never thought much of sunrises, either, or understood the vast poetry on the bloody red of the day's end. Yes, they were pretty and no two were alike, but he had seen enough in his life to know to look away when things got too bright, and the death of the sun was just too bright for him. The last sunset he saw springs to his head like a ball of muttering twine, and it is all periwinkle: the sky the color of a bonnet against the black of wet trees, peach and burgundy and perfect. He remembers that and then remembers the distant sound of cars in the background, passive and wavelike, he remembers the numb in his fingertips and the clear varnish of the floor. Once when he was younger, he laid down right there and laughed until he couldn't breathe, for no reason at all, just for the simple pleasure of hysteria. No, he is control and the wooden fence that surrounds him makes sense. He used to think it kept him in, but now he knows it's there because it has always been there, it is there for posterity's sake and for the sake of the people who built the fence. He could take it down and replace it with bushes or baked goods or nothing at all, but he never will. Because the fence has been there once, it will always be there, unchanging. He is, to the fence, nothing but a brief interlude in a caricature of sun salutations. This would depress him, but instead it gives him a little flair of joy, something inexplicable, like the breath before a dive into that bleak realm in the back of his mind. It hurts.

When he closes his eyes, he can see Tarrow's face, laughing.

Sometimes, when the music is loud and everyone else is dancing like they forget posterity, Orson looks up and sees the artwork again, the eyes trapped in golden frames. He can feel someone watching him, but in such a way that it just takes his eyes and makes them slide away from his friends. It sometimes bothers him, it sometimes doesn't. When he thinks about this, watching the world turn, he thinks about a time when he let himself fall asleep inside. For a long time, he's been tired.

Jarel wishes he had someone to be by him, for someone who had the same pattern of breaths and the same heartbeat stuttering under broken bones, for someone just to take to prom. He thinks everyone else is so pretty and that's the problem, but it is probably more that he doesn't hang in the right crowd and he's too busy hiding instead of seeking, although not intentionally. His personality has something to do with it too, most likely, that he's too much to handle and in the past he was at least wild.

Rhyme's soul is numb unexpectedly, like he slept on it wrong and now every movement results in tiny needles jarring his breath and he can't see straight and nothing is working and he just stares down at his hand and wishes that he didn't lie so much. He lies a lot, doesn't he? And it all gets mixed in there, it all becomes this thin grey line and he can't remember even though he knows he knew once – is this just another untruth? He thinks of texture, and he thinks of heat and he thinks of distance. He knows he has lost these things, somewhere, sleeping on his soul, and now they bother him because when he closes his eyes and tries to get his soul to touch his brain, he misses completely. This would be marginally amusing and slightly annoying except that every time this happens, a little angel part of his heart rips into a thousand tiny pieces like her profile as she glances over her shoulder, the words, _I despise people like you_ little diamonds spilling from her lips.

He talks a lot, he knows that, that he drips words from his lips like a faucet he forgot about, but it's because he hates the silence. He hates the moment in-between the in-between; hates the moment where everything stretches out like skin over his fingertips, too tight. He used to think that he didn't care, but now the girl in front of him reminds him that he can learn to hate things vicariously and maybe it's not really his problem so much as someone else's that he happened to pick up along the way, like this kind of thing was a briar or a thistle and it just clings to his skin. Maybe that's what hate is, thistles and things that he can't remove, something he's taught to take away. She makes him think about how much of a liar he is, how he's not loyal at all even though he meant to be. He's not a storybook hero. He never will be, he hopes, no, liar, again, he wishes for the magic powers and prowess when it comes to the impossible.

She's so ugly. No, maybe it's because she's just being herself and that makes him so uncomfortable that all he sees are the things she doesn't bother hiding. He hides a lot. A lot. A… Once, when he was younger, he told someone _I love you_ and they smiled like they were going to flare up and sun out, victory, he wanted to say _but not like that_ except something kept him from that moment for a very long time. He used to wonder why he waited to say no, but now he knows, in the same way that he is distinctly aware of how far she is from him, like her self-assured heat is burning his bare arms. She has little pansy freckles and messy hair and he thinks to himself that he can't see how she knows what love is. Reboot, retry, he wonders why she isn't crying, dying, twisting. Messed up inside.

He's standing with his back against the wall like the floor is just one step, like the edge and the glass are sucking him in and he's going to fall to his death. He thinks that he deserves it, falling to his death, because he is a terrible human being and he let Tarrow and Jason die, and now Yuki's caught up in it and it's just this web of dereliction, does no one else see that they're just _children?_

He's a tangle, and this is when Izzy and Will walk in, her red lipstick to the black muzzle of his gun. Rhyme looks at the blonde in her swanky {slutty} dress and it's like he's a riptide; let me out.

He tried to tell her, once, about the nightmares and the way that the darkness was, but she just shook her head and told him that it was something he had to live with, and he can remember thinking that it was unchangeable like his natural hair color or the emptiness of his eyes except that it made his heart race in the bad way, the way that felt like phosphorous and skipped classes. She isn't his friend anymore maybe because he reminds her of the days that are gone now. He can hear those moments rustling between the two of them like dried leaves on pavement and he just wants to stand in the torrents and laugh, wind in his hair, but she doesn't because it's over and it will be over for forever now. She has new friends and it's his fault and one day when he's older - he's scared of being older, but - one day when he's older he'll wish that there had been more time with her or maybe he'll just forget her and she'll forget him and five six seven years later when she's different and he's got that diploma, maybe he'll just think back and wonder what she's like now, if she's still that stick-thin diplomat of a woman or maybe she's a model now or maybe just a mother but he doesn't think that she's going to be what he expects of her. She's tricky like that. Once when he was younger the two of them, three of them if he's including that boy he hates, once they all shared secrets and showed their darkness and maybe she's regretting that now, that he knows every part of her, who knows, he wants to go home but it's not that easy. He made a commitment and he has to honor that, but he's no good, he's out of practice, commitment always scared him or something and it's never worked before. This is his proof that he is broken.

He thinks, idly, that it's unfairly pretty that her eyes change color, and right now they're reflecting violet from the ruby in her dress. She's smiling like she's just seen a rainbow, but it hurts to look at her directly. This is terrible to him, and he pushes himself against the wall and tries not the slide off the ground. She struts to the back of the couch and pats Carmen's head, but it's not her hand that Rhyme is watching, its Carmen's eyes. He knows that look, wide eyes and pinched lips. He knows because he causes it, all the time. That look is fear you can't escape, that look is hatred and honey, the desire to snap but tail between the legs too far.

Izzy's painted fingernails slide across the material and she glides herself into the seat. She looks fake, and the boy sitting on the table across from her looks mean. It's not real, because it can't be real. Izzy and Grace and Nathan and Will are all taking back Ike from his imprisonment, right at this moment. Right at this moment, they're being told the whole story of Frost and why they have to leave, _right now._ If anyone was watching the television instead of the way that Izzy crosses her legs one-over-the-other, than they see the truth of that: flicker, tears streaking down Grace's face, black and white and grey-scale.

Sage sees, and he says that. "You are in two bread places at once," he's coming around and parts of things are putting themselves back together. "You are jam, spread too thin. You defy the laws of physics." He's wrecked, actually, revise. The words are still_ zzch reboot please_ in his head.

She glances those optical-illusion eyes at the screen and there's this amused twitch to her lips like this is a joke but she doesn't have the time to care about it. "Children, please," she's talking to Kratch, who looks like she's about to puke, "Calm down. Everything is explainable."

Yuki's the only answer in the silence, honey eyes dilated dark: "I do, and we are all going to die."

xxxxxxxx

She's scared of the things that don't exist; the things that are just almosts in her head, the wisps of the things she saw in other places, like she the crack and the universe is spilling through her. Sometimes, when it's not worth it to be brave, she is sick-to-her-stomach scared. It is as if the sun goes down and her sense of reality leaves her, as if every nightmare she's ever had dances in the membranes of her eyes and they all just wait for her to sleep. She has developed a method against it, against waking up panting, but it doesn't always work and the dreams are still there like space between the filaments, golden orange glow. She hates sleeping, it makes her tired, so tired, and no one knows why except for her – she's sick of being scared, but it won't end, it won't ever end. Those monsters are of her making.

Caen is staring at Avalon in horror, because Talyn is gasping, wet and thick like syrup, clutching at her neck and looking {so betrayed, but still so loving} at the toddler who is keening happily. Avalon is frowning and letting her mind sear through things, clearing it out so it works again.

She's so scarred, deep red ridges, that when she looks up to the sky, she sees faces in the clouds of people who don't exist anymore, because they are dead. She likes that word now, "dead," because it is what it is, it is final and everlasting and just like all things, they will always be dead at some point in the history of the world and therefore it is not worth it to mourn their nonexistence but celebrate that which is what of left of their essence. This does not make sense to many people, but she doesn't need it to, not anymore. "I'll go and get bandages," Caen declares, sprints off.

Once Avalon used to be mad at her, but now she's just uncomfortable when she's around. And it's not that easy, is it? Because she can't love the one she's with because the one she loves is gone, out of reach, untouchable. She used to think that she just liked the chase, and maybe that's true. Maybe all that her problems come back to is the fact that she only wants that which she cannot have. She trusts people from afar, but the closer they get to knowing her, the more lies that spill from her mouth and the more she pushes them away, cocooning herself in this vast webbing of distrust, and it's all from that boy, she thinks, it's all from that one mistake. She thinks about what she's come to, the empty I-need-to-get-out, and it's not something she likes anymore. It feels like intolerable anxiety, like she's just waiting for the next moment when the world strikes and it will all be over again. She hates waiting, and lately everything feels like one more moment standing in line, like life is just going to pick up back where it started, like the fire will catch any moment now, like that thing she has been hoping for will magically appear like glass in the sand.

It has been fifteen seconds since Talyn has collapsed. Avalon knows this because she was counting as her brain was turning. Avalon, pink pretty princess, smeared as she is in her only loved one's death, leans down and brushes the nutmeg hair from the sapphire eyes. Davion looks like he is elsewhere and Tobi looks like he is about to pass out. Something in her movement maybe breaks everything, because then Davion is lurching forwards and clutching Talyn's fingers, oak eyes wide. His cheeks are pink and he looks ready to cry. It's ugly, because it's love.

"Hey, honey," Avalon, sweet voice, nothing is the matter and that giant wound just needs a Band-Aid and some love, "Can you hear me?"

Gasp, thick wet working of the tongue, trying to swallow. "H-h-h-help m-m-me," she begs, forcing it out, her eyes still watching the little child thing that is grinning and sucking on its fist, her blood still staining its mouth. Tobi orders a single attack, and the sound its little neck makes when it breaks echoes across the snow.

So this is them: Tobi, fists by his side, burning up, Davion, unsure and ugly, Avalon, calm and killer, Talyn, dying. This is what they look up to see: a bright smile headed towards them.

"Hello," she is wearing a pretty blue dress and she doesn't seem at all wonderful, "My name is Bluebell. I'm going to kill you now."

The funny thing is, Avalon almost let her.

xxxxxxxx

He's stalking her a little and she hates him for that; unfair, she's that girl that no one likes except for the crazy ones. It's been easy hasn't it, it's been easy being all awkward and gawky and she thinks she'll be the poised one, but she probably won't be. He told her that she should just assume she'll have a good time or else there's no chance of one, and so far that's worked. But the closer that the day comes, the more that it tears at her. She's shattered from something still, but she can't name it because it's like caffeine to her, it pumps her up and makes her feel alive again, awake again, hello world. But that just makes her worse, that makes her more like the kid that she is, which is the one that no one likes. She's painted her fingers pink and her eyelids brown and her teeth black with lies, and it hasn't happened to help. There you go. She's done, the clock's run out, she's lost again, they're singing and it hasn't started raining but the air is heavy with it like she's breathing water, and she's accidentally looked into his eyes, and now she's regretting it. She must never, ever look into his eyes, or he'll get into her head and turn her to stone.

Mimi is watching them stand before the girl that is bleeding and she does maybe the first truly selfless thing of her life: she just kisses Talyn's forehead and whispers that it is going to be ok.

xxxxxxxx

He moved to be farther away from her and he still hasn't come back, like the idea of her isn't enough to keep him beside her. She's awkward and making other people awkward too, but that's her poison and she can't stop the words from tumbling from her mouth, it just happens. She doesn't know why it's like that but it's terrible and she thinks that she's horrible at making friends because she babbles like she's lost her sense of reason and the sun is so bright that she wants to be out in it, but just like always in her mind she's stuck behind a desk and clicking her nails against a keyboard. There's laughter from across the room, maybe she could have been that, but instead there's writing on the back of her hand for her to remember things and she never plays her music loudly because she's embarrassed of it, although she doesn't know why.

She's tired because she pretends to be happy; they're singing now but he's still not back because she's not worth it. She's built herself up, telling herself she's made a friend, but really the two of them are just friends out of necessity and not out of love, and besides, he loves another girl that is seventeen times better than she is and that girl always will be. She makes a habit out of never being good enough. There's alarms going off in her brain now, but it's because he hasn't responded to her text and she's pretty sure that he could be dead. He hates her and he still hasn't come back. This makes her imperceptibly lonely, but that's not worth it. She remembers to notice the alarm in her head again, because it's always there, it's just that it's so constant that she can't always hear it. It's the same as the way he puts his headphones in and gets annoyed by her questions because she's a child, isn't she? She's always been just a child playing at becoming an adult.

Cam Blake is panting and it's starting to look fuzzy in the land of snow, which is when Justin catches her wrist and meets her eyes. "You're going to be fine."

She wants to laugh. She's starting to hallucinate, so she's probably not going to be fine. "I'm just… I'm so done with the cycle, Justin." Is he swimming or is that her head?

"Just one more time, honey," he's smiling now, she's definitely hallucinating, "And then it will all be over."

"I'm so tired." She is, she is, so many years over and over.

He blinks, long slow, thoughtful. "Be awake. Be alive. Be one of mine."

But she can't, she can't. She never could.

xxxxxxxx

Izzy – fake Izzy, painted Izzy, the best Izzy there is – takes a grape and examines it before sliding it down past her teeth with infinitesimal care. She likes the tension in the room, because it fits her personality. She's drawing it out because there is nothing else to the story, is there? There's the moment where it steps into the real world and that's it. She's bulletproof until then.

She makes an apple appear in her hands, sour and green, twisting it as if where she bites makes all the difference. But she doesn't do anything. She just makes those ocean lavender eyes hold steady before starting a story. It's quick, maybe, and it starts with a group of scientists.

What if, she says, What if I told you a story? What if, after all that, the story was just you?

xxxxxxxx

He wasn't always like this, jumping when the door slammed and whipping his head around every time that the floorboards creaked. Once he used to be able to be home alone and not worry that the sun was going down. This was before she broke his heart, he's pretty sure. This was before everything tipped to the sound of arcades in his head. This was before he knew what humanity was capable of. When he was younger, he used to lie awake and pray that nothing horrible would happen when he was asleep. He used to sleepwalk, too, like he was trying to get out of his own skin. He knew all of the evil in the world before he could speak of it. This is how he ends up with so much fear inside his eyes: it's always been there, maybe.

"Ah," Tobi makes a face, "Can… Can you just not and say you did?" He does not think this technique will work, but figures it's worth trying anyway. "I mean…does it look like we need killing?"

Bluebell raises her pretty brown eyebrows and pouts, but then she sees the girl they are all standing in front of {it's that easy, darling, it's that easy to get someone to protect you and show they care: sprawl out your body and let the spirits take you} and her face changes. It's only a blink of a moment, but Tobi sees it and he begs. He is good at begging. "Please, at least wait until our friend gets back with bandages. The way things are, we wouldn't exactly put up much of a fight, would we?"

She shrugs. She's distracted but focused, like, _the outdoors are nice and all, hand me some good old-fashioned killing and we'll get right to it_. "It's not my decision to make." Her voice is the high clip of childhood. It makes Talyn jerk suddenly, wild, desperate.

"Cyan? Cyan, is that you?" She's glancing around, but her eyes are blind.

Bluebell, paused in examining her nails, just falls apart.

xxxxxxx

She takes a bite of her apple and chews it slowly, ponderously, and when she opens her mouth, sand in stories falls out.

What if I said, hello, this is how you save the world, take it and go? What if I said that? Would you cringe? No, you wouldn't, you would love me forever and you know it.

So let's talk about a different time, when your precious animals were way too wild and there were so many people that the world couldn't breathe. The world was bigger then, too. There were, you know, actual continents and mango trees and real seasons. I guess it wasn't all perfect, but it was home. Not that I would know, I'm just telling you the story that I've been told so many times that I once considered getting a tattoo of it just to get it out of my head.

Science. You love science, I know it. Maybe not, I don't care. Look, the point is that a long time ago, back in that time when the world was bigger, science was bigger too. I don't know. But with every advance came some big thing we – they, whatever – wished we hadn't discovered. I mean, cure cancer, find the next atom bomb. Cure world hunger, guns are like chocolate chips you can pick up at the store for six cents. Everyone is freaking out, which is probably why the governments start to suck. I mean, really suck. We ran out of room, conquering time. There simply weren't enough resources anymore, and that meant war for them. A lot of war.

So let's say that you're crazy but you want the right things. Let's say that. Let's also say that you release a neurotoxin into the air that, when humans are exposed to it, bad things happen. Let's skip that part. I think that part is probably obvious to you, what happens next. I don't like dwelling on bad things. Let's skip to the scientists that managed to save themselves through science magic or some nonsense. Let's also say that they managed to save an entire county. Now, I don't know about you, but a county is nothing. A country, now, that's something. A county is a few houses in the hills. Anyway, they save these kids with this special chemical thing. Problem with the special chemical thing: it makes it impossible to reproduce, and that's only if you're lucky. If you're not…

They had three options. One: give up, let the world work its own magic. Two: solve the problem in an impossibly quick span of time. Three: let future generations solve the problem. Of course, originally, option three was just mean. But then the smartest of the smart guys asked why they don't just take a DNA sample from each person and remake them. It wasn't hard. They would make clones and those clones would make clones. Each of the brightest in a set of clones would be brought up to solve that problem and make a difference. Each generation would only last a predetermined amount of time, and then they would serve the role of mothers and daughters and sisters so that the next generation would grow up with the impression of family and normalcy.

If you're doing the math right now, which you probably are, you're figuring out that I'm telling you the story of Frost. I mean, I'm missing some bits here and there, but I figure you get the most of it. Right? I mean, that's how you're looking at me while the Izzy you know and love is over in the woods somewhere. That's how we all speak one language. That's how you just _know_ things without knowing how.

Don't look at me like that, and yes, baby girl.

_You're _the clones.

xxxxxxx

Davion looks up when he smells blood again. It's Bell, fidgeting as her body crumbles. He peers at her, but past her, like she's some ghost. His eyebrows pull together and he sets his jaw, because behind her, stalking easy across the plain is someone he knows, dressed in orange and black.

"Grace?" he asks, "What are you doing here?"

xxxxxxxx

She's crying real hard now, like you just broke her in half. The story is done and the truth is out. What is she supposed to say?

Izzy {the real Izzy, the young one, the sweet one} frowns a little, crossing her arms while slyly wiping at her eyes. Everyone else is just standing there, frozen in shock, but her eyes, reflecting white against the snow, and piercing through Grace's skin. "How…how did you _know?_" She didn't mean it vicious, but it came out that way, didn't it? By the way that Grace has pressed herself against the tree, it is amazing that she has not turned into branches and leaves.

Dark dark dark. She looks like she would rather say anything else, even _I love you_, just please no please you don't understand. "He came to me, and I killed him for it," she whispers, "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Who, Grace?" his eyes are not the steel of Nathan but instead the _wrecked_ of Will. He's speaking soft, kindly, brown hair and brushed bangs. He is pale and he forgets to make a joke about this.

"I didn't mean to. I just… I thought it would be easier," she's blubbering now, spilling out everywhere.

"Who, Grace?" Nathan now, black tongue, dangerous. He's not afraid of death the way that others are.

"N-Nico," and then it's a river, "I couldn't… I didn't mean to. I… He told me… I was…" she can't even speak, so Ike steps in while the others take a huge step backwards because she's crazy, obviously, why didn't we notice this before?

"He told you that you were different than everyone else, just for one reason: you used to be the daughter of a scientist. The last baby of an era. That there were seven more copies of you, rotting in the House because they weren't close enough to the girl that no one will ever be again. He told you that you could easily be replaced. He told you that all of those skills that you thought you had were just little lies. He told you that the only reason it's you and not them is because Tabbot chose you. He told you just how old Tabbot is, how that Absol has been around since forever." His voice is still creaky-spun, and he looks content just to leave this world and never know pain again.

She shakes her head, violently, wet hair swirling around, but the truth of the words are echoing through the woods like the last moments before the bomb detonates. It sounds so sweet, so cautious, so loving.

Sometimes, when the wind sings and truth sounds and a girl collapses in the snow, sobbing, voices can be heard. They say if you bend into rhythm and close your eyes, it sounds exactly like those that you lost {forever is a long time to rot in an unmarked grave} and it hurts worse than glass cuts, it hurts worse than all writing and all endings, because it is all of your sins.

The thing about having the chance to live endlessly is that every mistake is eternal.

xxxxxxxxx

They're alone again, because Eilsa and Jacob did what was probably the smart thing, leaving. Thompson doesn't know where they are, but he feels like it probably doesn't matter, and he hopes they get out all right. Right now he's staring at the device that starts the Silent Hour and makes all sorts of nonsense go down. He thinks that it's funny that they hid it in the library wall, although he can't say why.

Felix is sitting on the floor while Thompson works his own version of magic: wires. The sociopath is trailing his fingers across the charcoal words, intent. There it is, all of the proof and explanations in sharp scientific speak. But it's the note that makes them tick, scrawled in at the bottom, cruel, torturous:

_It is all a clever lie. They made me Dean because they thought I would never find out. There is one thing that I now know to be true: This is the Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented_, _and it is inescapable. We are all stuck in a cycle to be studied, over and over and over. Currently we are the twenty-seventh cycle. There are rooms I am not allowed in but have managed to sneak into. Inside of these, I have met the bodies of past generations and found that for every porter that comes to take my bags, there is a scientist. They are keeping us trapped her, stuck in this place for all of eternity, just to study us. Each level of my building is filled with the corpses and research notes of a cycle. All of my proof is attached._

_**We**__ are the experiment._

xxxxxxxxx

But it's not Grace, it's her twin. Lily is smiling, clear-eyed. "Sorry, Davion," her voice like sweet sandpaper, "But you don't understand. You never would."

She's being replaced tonight by a girl she has never met, but that's ok.

She will never feel like she has died.

xxxxxxxx

The thing is beeping now, and Thompson steps back, brushing his hands together, "Not too shabby," his British accent as intact as ever, "I mean, I've never exactly read a manual on bomb-building, and this still looks ok."

Felix smiles and there is a long, awkward pause.

"Um," Thompson, shuffling his feet, "It's… it's a manual switch. Now, there is one thing I know about this particular thing: it's going to explode. When it does, it will either take out the device and shut down the cycle that the Dean uncovered, effectively shutting down the next generation of clones, or, alternatively, kill us all and end the experiment forever. But…but it will explode. That's…that's pretty much certain."

"Ok," Felix, calm, Spiral in the back of his mind.

"Um. It's… It would kill me, you see. Either way. And not that I'm particularly weepy about. I've had the whole death thing hanging over me for ages now. I'll be glad to be rid of it." He's grinning, but it's not funny.

"Ok," he's watching Spiral flicker.

"So…so you should go."

Spiral is not real. Spiral has not been real since she died in his arms.

This is why Felix does not leave, why there are two boys standing there while the clock counts down the seconds until either everyone makes it out and the walls fall down or they are the end of everything.

Either way, either way. There's only one way out of the Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented.

Tick

Tick

Tick

**X-X**

**A.N: Well, that's it :) I hope you liked it and it didn't confuse you too much :)**

**Fear The Pika is the reason it doesn't suck, if you're wondering. He has such good grammar skills that it baffles me.  
**

**Guess why I waited until today to release this :D Also, if at this point you still have some questions, ask me! I love to talk :)  
**

**People I owe my happiness, my love, and this story to, in no particular order: Happy2Bme, Vlad The Implier, Mysterious Panther, Fear The Pika, Gweniveve Skyes, Kaprikorn - Ancient Storm Lord, Stolloss, pepperpizzapal, Kissy Fishy, DoahShadow, Indigo Hare, Wings of Silver Rain, Chaosandcupcakes, Tyltalis, WereDragon EX, Lilith Noms Popcorn, SoujaGurl, Not So Gallant Galade, Joker'sTwinBro-FlameOfRecca's, Josky, Korona Karyuudo, WolfSummoner93, Gao Okami, Pete Fan Formerly Rides Again, Simply Unknown, SushiJaguar, iflip4dolphins, Juicetin Boo, ultima-owner, Kei's-Girl, Lunasca, Fallen Vanguard, tinfoilman4, DolceBrio, Written Plague, A Half-Empty Glass, chris, Bearded Zeus, and of _course _my dear Whimsical Acumen, who is so incredibly patient and understanding and works as actually the best idea-bouncing/inspiration-giving/no-Shade-just-actually-do-your-work/getting-better-is-more-important-than-writing friend I could ever ask for. **

**So, you know how movies have those deleted scenes? I figure I owe you all since I suck and waited until now to update, so here are some of the things that never made it into the story for various reasons (read: they are terrible and/or were written when the story was going someplace else). A warning though: they are _largely_ unedited, some pick up in the middle of nothing, and some just end. Sorry?**

X

She was sitting in art class when her phone started buzzing. Otter leaned over. "Watcha got there?" he asked, looking at the picture. He was pretty sure Grace had stopped breathing. The screen showed a good-looking middle-aged man with dark, curly hair and tanned skin, grinning at the camera with several children by his side.

"It's my dad," she breathed, "My dad is calling me." She stood up suddenly, marched to the front of the classroom, whispered she needed to use the bathroom, and left. Otter stared at his painting. It was pretty awesome, he thought. An artistic depiction of a childhood dream.

By the time she was back, they had maybe two minutes left in the class and a wide grin was on the brunette's face. Otter's painting had turned from childhood dream into warped adolescence: a young face, tattooed in scales. A hammock with the color of lust in it.

"I love that," she breathed. "I love you. I love the world," she declared. Otter raised one eyebrow, adding a touch of green to envy's eyes.

"Gay," Otter declared, "Your love is unrequited. You lose ten points. Go to jail, go directly to jail. Do not pass go."

She grinned at him. "Do not collect two hundred dollars?"

Otter snorted down his nose. "Honey, you _know_ a stripper makes more than _that _a night. What you think they were prosecuting you for?"

Grace squealed and slapped him on the shoulder, but she was smiling unlike anything Otter had ever seen from her: brilliant, happy, exploding. She was writing something over her painting with red paint, turning swirling darkness into a background for light.

_He still loves me. I am ugly with sins and he still loves me._

_X_

"Just think about it," Will declared, slapping the box down. It was heavier than he had expected. "What is the point of all those butlers anyway?"

"I dunno," Nathan said dryly, "One assumes it was something along the lines of, say, helping you with groceries or something."

"Think about it. How do you even get a license for that? I bet they go to some sort of school in which all you learn is cleaning, cooking, and how to murder a nice old guy."

"Hey," the writer replied, "I went to school there, you know. It's actually quite nice once you get past the blood in the hallways."

Will just stared at him.

_X_

"Dude," Will said, holding the picture of her mother, "She's so _dark._"

Grace paused in combing out her hair, one eyebrow raised. "I'm going to pretend that didn't sound racist," she stated, "Since, yeah, she is. She's from Sri Lanka."

"But…" he paused, looking her up and down. She rolled her eyes, braiding a piece of her hair.

"I'm white? My _dad_ is white. Why do you think I'm a sort of a half color?" she grinned before adding, "I like to think of myself as vanilla with a swirl."

"I just thought you were tan," he whispered, wondering why every word that came out of his mouth sounded offensive. Then he knew: he was talking to a girl. "On another note," he coughed, "I'm totally white."

She gave him an once-over. "I noticed," she said dryly, "Its hard not to."

X

"It's just… I mean, that's not like her," Grace mused, watching the way the candle jumped. She smacked herself in the forehead. "Of _course,_" she groaned, "That stupid lemon ink trick," she muttered, and held the paper over the candle. Nathan shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to help, he did, but she was sometimes too quick for him. He sent a warning look towards Will, who was very subtly creeping closer to her.

"What's it say?" Will asked, peering over her shoulder and watching as the brown ink became legible. Grace knit her brows and looked up to Nathan. She smiled like the setting sun. "Can you write something down for me?"

Nathan shrugged and flipped to a new page in his notebook. He gestured for her to read, and she relayed, "JELK ER ONTO. TQKKF HPMWS," her mouth twisting around the letters. Will frowned. "I don't get it. Someone went out of the way to get that to you, so why doesn't it make any sense?"

"It's a cipher," Grace murmured, and then plucked the pen and paper right out of Nathan's hands. He almost chided her for it, but the distant look on her face stopped him. She was already scribbling and scratching away. She ignored any questions the boys asked her, her mouth only forming inaudible babble.

Nathan sent a vicious glare towards Will, who had placed himself in a strategically acceptable position between Izzy and Grace. The smaller boy looked up to the slate eyes he was so well acquainted with, and beamed innocently. Nathan wanted to punch him. In a friendly way.

X

"I've got it," she said breathlessly, sitting down at the table with them. They looked at Grace expectantly. She was grinning with pride. Izzy gestured for her friend to continue. Nathan peered over her shoulder. In her thin, slippery writing, she had solved the cipher. The note was circled, crossing over the blue lines. Nathan shook his head. "I don't understand," he breathed, and she looked up at him, her dark eyes sad. In her hands, her sister's words sang out against the white paper.

_Nico is dead. Tommi knows._

_X_

She flipped her hair and shifted over to him. "Come on," she purred, "I know you like someone." She put one hand on his knee and leaned close to him, smiling as she watched the blush settle on his face.

"I…uh, I, I…" he tried, and had to clear his voice before he continued, "Yeah, I do." He didn't try to hide it from her. She appreciated that.

"So," she sang, her blue eyes on his, "Who is it?"

He looked at her, startled, as if he had expected her to know that as well. He smiled a sad little half-smile, raising one shoulder. "It's Grace," he murmured, "It's always been Grace."

She left before he could see her cry.

X

"_Grace_," he breathed, "Just _stop._"

She smiled, a little quirk of joy. "Stop what?"

"Grace, I _get_ it ok? I get that your dad pretty much left you alone with a bitch of a stepmother for your whole life, and I get that Ashley went missing, but _stop._ It's not fair," he spat.

"I don't understand what I'm stopping," she grinned, tiling her head to the side.

"Grace, you're a tease. Everyone knows it. You don't _like_ people," Will sighed, running his hands through his hair. "It's _weird_, ok? I…I mean, I like you, Grace. I like you…a lot, I guess. But I have to put up with the fact that you will probably never like me back. And…and sometimes, you know, you're awesome enough that that's ok. But…I can't just…_fawn_ over you all the time."

She still smiled. "Will, how could you say that?"

He was suddenly furious. "Because of _that_, Grace. How is it normal that you're smiling through this? I'm practically bearing my soul and you're completely unfazed at the idea that you're _completely_ messed up," he snapped. She dropped the smile. He sighed and shook his head. "Just…just…tell me. Tell me it's not true."

"It's not true," she replied joyfully.

That's how he knew it was. He felt like punching someone. "_Grace,_ don't lie to me. Tell me the truth. Do you…I mean, can you…feel…things…?"

She blinked. "I feel pain," she responded, "If that's what you mean."

"_No_, Grace, I mean, you know…emotions. That stuff."

She stared at him, bright brilliant eyes, and the smile plastered to her face. "Oh. Those," she grinned, "Of course not."

"Grace…you're so…messed up…" Will frowned while Grace smiled.

She leaned over and kissed him, softly, grinning at the way he froze.

"Just kidding," she breathed against his lips, "I can feel _some_ things."

Will pulled away, swallowing hard. "I-I-I…I-I-I…I-I-I…uh."

"The Roman numeral three has nothing to do with this," she laughed, but it flickered, broken. "I know," she said, after a pause, "I know I'm terrible at emotions and whatever. But being with people – being with _you_ – makes me, you know… hope." She frowned and pulled at the hem of her shirt. "I know I'm…broken. I know…I'm ugly with it. With all the hatred and callousness and I wouldn't date me either." She looked up to the ceiling, cracked as she was, and laughed again, "But I'd like if you gave me a chance."

"I-I-I…" he stammered, before getting himself under control. He cleared his throat. "There need to be rules. If you feel like you're faking our relationship in any way, you _have _to tell me."

"Tell you if I'm faking?" she laughed. "We'll see."

He almost chided her, but the taste of her lips was too sweet to stop.

X

"Grace," he purred, "My darling little girl. Do you know how I have searched for you?"

She didn't say anything. She wouldn't glorify him with a response, even though a quick retort was resting on her tongue. She glared at him, her arms crossed and her lips pursed as if she was looking at something that was particularly displeasing.

"Didn't you _wonder?_ Didn't you think about it? Didn't you ever think about just the sheer _impossibility_ of your genetics?" Sir Harvey Gillian Frost cooed, reaching out one slim white finger under her tanned chin. "Darling, your father has dark, dark hair. And you had blonde. You have wavy hair. He has straight. You are short. He is tall. Darling," he cooed, "Didn't you wonder?"

X

She opened the door and screamed.

_She got involved_. Red letters – was that her own – no, they couldn't have.

Blood was everywhere.

"Avalon," she gulped, "_Avalon._"

She remembered the note: _Try it and you die._

Caen laughed, suddenly, despite the tears and the blood and her quaking heart.

"Oh bitch," she said quietly, voice shaky but strong, "You have done it now."

X

Her talent was in starting fires: she liked the way that it leapt to greet her fingertips, the way that she blew life into it, the way it consumed. She liked the way the ashes tasted on her tongue, the way it brushed everything with a dusty black-blue, the way that it made the air twine with the scent of burn-burn-burn.

She would sit with her legs crossed, staring into the heart of the heat, folding paper airplanes in her fingers. She would let them fly into the orangeredyellow heat, watching the way they twisted and turned to nothingness. She would talk to them, speak their voices that would never exist, passengers on a little paper plane.

X

The wires in her made her hurt.

She glimpsed the world for an instant and knew she had sisters. She had sisters. She had to remember that.

Too many wires. Too many wires. Too many too many too-

Gold liquid bubbles, rainbows in front of her eyes.

X

The mask over her mouth made her take one breath, two, three. If she paused, they would know she was awake. She couldn't think who exactly it was "they" were, but she knew it was important.

She wondered when she had started thinking. When she had started knowing. It felt like…it felt like…

She knew the word but did not understand it. The idea of it held no premise in her mind.

What was "freedom" and why did she want it so badly?

X

The rain was oppressive, and he didn't seem to care, his hair dark, plastered against his skin. He was drenched, his clothes hugging his lean frame to a fault. He'd had the sense to cover most of the guitar, at least, but she still felt inexplicably angry. "You shouldn't be out here with that," she shouted over the din of falling water, "The wood will swell and it will never play right."

"Properly," he corrected her, "And I don't care," he stated, tugging on the strap across his chest so the guitar swung around. "It's just wood and strings," he stated, running a rather impressive series of chords. He swung it back behind him, stepping closer to her. She shivered and took her own step away from him.

"That's it?" she called, "All of our…our time together? Just wood and strings?" She felt like crying and she didn't know why. She was shaking from the cold, her clothes wet against her body. Her hair started to misbehave and she was pretty sure her makeup was running. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, trying to stop the quivering. She didn't know why she cared so much. He was right. It _was_ just some stupid instrument together. She didn't care at all. She bit her lip.

He was too close, so close she could smell his familiar twang of ink and forest. He had this sad smile on his visage as he cupped her face in his hands. All she could see were blue blue blue eyes the color of slate and falling. She was shaking still, but she doubted highly it was from the cold. "I don't care," he repeated, "It's a guitar. I can buy a new one."

She was furious. "It's stupid," she snarled, "Whatever. It's expendable, right? It doesn't matter. Because the guitar has a prettier, mysterious friend or whatever. The guitar can be replaced. The guitar is ugly, right? Who cares about a stupid instrument anyway?"

He was laughing, the jerk. He put his forehead against hers. Half of her wanted to punch his face in. The other half refused to move. "I don't care," he said again, "Because it's just a guitar. I'm not worried about it. Right now I'm sort of focused on something wonderful and incorruptible and gorgeous and so, so, _so_ amazing that I am not worthy to be in her presence."

She was shuddering even harder. "Who?" she spat, "Grace? Of course it's Grace. It's always been Grace."

He laughed again, light against the dark rain, "Don't be silly," he whispered, "It's you," he hummed, and then he was kissing her.

All was right with the world.

X

**Well, there you go. I hope you liked Frost as much as I did, and maybe I'll hear from you soon? Do take care, though, on account of I love you all so much that if anything happened to you, I'd cry.**

**In case you're wondering, the final tally of words is 179,213. I couldn't have made it there without all the love and support :)  
**

**Thank you so much for reading.**


End file.
